


Magic

by delicious-irony (deliciousirony)



Series: Dean Cas (Reverse) Big Bangs & Challenges [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but they don't know yet they're pining), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Merlin, Alternative Universe - Merlin, Bi!Dean, Bisexual Dean, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Demisexual Castiel, Destiel is endgame, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Destiel, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Magic, Merlin AU, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, demi!cas, executions, kind of but not quite yet, later though, this is basically a massive pilot episode for the merry adventures of merlin!Cas and arthur!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8704786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicious-irony
Summary: In a land where magic is punishable by death, and at a time when even just being associated with a sorcerer can get you killed, Castiel comes to Camelot hoping his aunt’s old friend Bobby will be able to help him with his magic. Due to an, in Castiel’s opinion frankly unfortunate, succession of events, he finds himself the manservant of the irritating Crown Prince of Camelot, His Royal Highness Prince Dean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started with my 2016 DCBB. I signed up and started planning. The outline kept growing, but, oh well, they do that, don't they. I figured I'd be done with 50k-60k, and that was me being generous in my estimate. I showed Sheron my outline and she basically went, right, where are you going to cut for your DCBB? Since I could always come back and continue writing the whole thing if I really wanted to write the entire 100k of it. I was, of course, completely convinced I'd manage the whole thing (LOL - oh, the wisdom of hindsight).  
> Long story short, the story I wanted to tell grew way too long to finish ALL of it in time for the DCBB. Even Sharon's 100k estimate is a fond memory by now. Since I did not want to rush any part of it, I finally decided to split the big story into parts, or episodes, and have the 'pilot' as my DCBB story. The 'pilot' is a stand-alone story, but Dean and Cas are not yet together by the end of this installment; insofar it's not a full-blown happily-ever-after happy end, but it's a hopeful ending and they're on their way.
> 
> Massive, massive thanks to everybody who helped this fic along! [Sheron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron), who is the best sounding board anybody could wish for and who provided a voice of reason (length... LOL), and general life support at times. [Desirae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Desirae), for all her lovely comments and encouragement; [quiescentcas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quiescentcas/pseuds/quiescentcas), [starsandshit](http://starsandshit.tumblr.com), and [Watching_The_Bees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Watching_The_Bees/pseuds/Watching_The_Bees) for being awesome betas. Any mistakes that remain are of course theirs. ;)  
> Thank you also to the mods for organising this mayhem every year!
> 
> [Moonliteknight](http://moonliteknight.livejournal.com) made some great art for this fic, check it out [here](http://moonliteknight.livejournal.com/8965.html)!
> 
>  
> 
> If you have any questions or would just like to say hi, I'd love to meet you on [Tumblr](http://delicious-irony.tumblr.com) :)  
> I also have a small [art blog](http://delicirony.tumblr.com), and if you’d like to have a look, you can find [my artsy stuff on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony) too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

Castiel sputtered awake when a wet something was dropped onto his head. The crow sitting in the tree above him cackled with delight. Wiping his face, Castiel eyed the wet cloth now in his lap. Somehow Balthazar had managed to untie Castiel’s scarf during the night without waking him. The nearby creek explained the wetness, but the crow had, like so many times before, gone to impressive lengths just to mess with him. 

A spark of blue lightning stole over Castiel's eyes, and with a resounding crack the branch serving as the bird’s perch broke off, ending the cackling with a rather undignified squeak. Castiel's satisfaction, however, was short lived, because the severed branch then proceeded to hit him straight on the head, reigniting Balthazar’s cackling. 

Castiel sighed. Probably served him right; he had given Hannah his solemn promise to keep his magic in check. Hannah was not kin, but the closest thing to kin he had. Hannah’s hope that an old friend of hers might be able to help Castiel understand his powers and her promise to write to him were what finally made Castiel agree to go to Camelot. 

Camelot was where he was travelling right now. Grumpy as he was about the early morning and Balthazar’s rough yet effective method, he was also grateful to Balthazar for waking him. If Castiel wanted to reach the capital city at a decent hour, maybe even in time for some lunch, he would have to set out early. A short dig through his satchel revealed a disheartening amount of edibles, but still, he broke off a few crumbs of bread and a piece of cheese for Balthazar. The crow flew down from his new perch, a much thicker branch this time, and gratefully started picking at the food. Just because Balthazar could hunt down mice and berries and the like didn't mean he enjoyed doing so. He much preferred human food. Castiel couldn't count the number of times he had found suspicious beak-marks in his pies or missed a piece of cheese he was sure had just been in front of him. Balthazar could be a sneaky little bastard, as evidenced once more by the theft of Castiel's scarf this morning.

The bread was a couple of days old and only borderline chewable. Castiel glanced around. There was only the bluish, hazy mist of the early morning pooling in the creeks and hollows of the forest around him. With another flash of white briefly lightning up Castiel's eyes, the bread was soft again and steaming with heat, and Castiel's dew-damp coat was cosy-warm and dry. Balthazar glared at him. Castiel shrugged. There hadn’t been anybody around to see him anyway, and he quickly dried his scarf as well before putting it back on. The crow angrily clicked his beak.

“I know,” Castiel sighed. “Don't worry, I’ll be more careful in the city.”

Castiel stood up, stretching to loosen up his bones after another night on the ground. His back and shoulders popped audibly. He shook out his coat, rolled it up, and tied it on top of his satchel. For this time of the year the coat was rather warm, but Castiel hoped it would be fine for the winter down here too. It was an old, tan coat that he had had for a number of years now, but where he had grown up the coat had never been quite enough during winter. However, when he had bought it, he had known that he would only be able to afford one coat, and so he had reasoned that he would take one that was suitable for cool weather  - this way it would only be a little too warm in summer . Since he would need something in winter as well, he took the coat two sizes bigger than he needed so that he could wear a woollen jumper or two beneath it.

Back on the road, Castiel took a moment to orient himself, but Balthazar was already hopping from branch to branch, down the road, in what Castiel assumed was the right direction. Shouldering his satchel, he followed the crow. He knew there was little chance of catching up with Balthazar now; the bird would fly ahead to see what lay further down the road until he was little more than a black and grey shadow in the twilight . Later he would return and probably hitch a ride on Castiel's shoulder for some time.

The day was bright and promised a good deal of heat later on, which was unusual this late in the summer. During the last few weeks autumn had started to filter through. As Castiel marched on, the scenery slowly changed, and soon he had left most of the woods behind him. The landscape mellowed and the torn stone of the mountains softened into rolling hills and green meado ws, m uch like the ones Castiel was used to. Camelot’s rich pastures and gentle climate were the object of much envy from many of the surrounding kingdoms. 

Thian, the kingdom where Castiel had grown up, did not look much different, but being a good deal further north made the winters much rougher than in Camelot. Now, half a day’s journey from the City of Camelot, the fields around him showcased Camelot’s prosperity: grapes hang heavy from the vines with thick wooden beams supporting their weight, and some farmers had already started bringing in the seas of golden wheat and copper sunflowers. Artfully assembled stonewalls separated fields from orchards and lined the winding road - some of them only thigh-high, others taller than a grown man. There were fields and fields of all kinds of vegetables, the remains of yesterday’s heavy rainfall on the leaves, sparkling in the morning sunlight like rhinestones sewn onto opulent green silk. Farmers with colourful hats dotted some of the fields.

The disadvantage of the heavy rainfall from the day before were huge puddles of murky water; none particularly deep due to the road being kept in commendable order, but some of them rather wide. Quite often Castiel found himself tiptoeing along narrow paths or playing hopscotch with dry spots. 

Already in viewing distance of Camelot, Castiel was carefully manoeuvring around what appeared to be a small pond, when he heard the rapidly closing sound of a group of knights on horseback.  Caught between the puddle and a high stonewall, Castiel hoped for the riders to slow down. However, when they shot into view, the foremost rider seemed to urge his black mount to an even higher speed as he saw Castiel awkwardly edging along the wall trying to keep his boots dry . In a whirl of hoofs, hoots, and jaunty screams to get out of the way, the pack tore past him, dowsing Castiel in cold water and splattering him with mud from head to toe. In an effort to press himself even closer to the wall, Castiel slipped and landed deftly on his bottom, smack in the middle of the puddle. The blond rider in the front was looking back over his shoulder and appeared to all but fall off his horse with laughter.

The knights were almost out of sight when Balthazar landed on the stonewall. The bird seemed caught between keeping himself from laughing and genuine worry about what might be Castiel’s reaction. Castiel himself needed a second to process what had just happened. A fat blob of mud was slowly sliding down his forehead, and when he instinctively tried stopping it from dripping into his eyes, he smeared even more dirt over his face. 

Fuming, Castiel barely kept himself from trying to do something to that rider’s saddle belt, even though by then he was probably already too far away to reach. He picked himself up, leaving behind a visible indent in the sludge on the ground. Brown rivulets of water cascaded down the seams of his trousers, running into his shoes and out again. He wriggled his toes. He could feel the mud between them. This close to Camelot, surrounded by farmers and with only a stonewall to serve him as protection from any prying eyes, Castiel knew summoning his magic would be reckless and stupid, but he could feel the sparks of it riding on the anger bubbling up inside of him. He could still see the blond knight galloping away on his beast of a stallion, his red cape billowing behind him.  Lightning shot across Castiel’s eyes, too  fast for anyone to notice who might not have been waiting for it to happen. There was a shout, then some more shouting, followed by curses and quickly subdued laughter. The blond knight appeared to be sitting in a puddle similar to Castiel’s, soggy cape draped half over his head. His horse had come to a stop a few paces away from him and stood with the other knights. They must have pressed past him to avoid trampling him, but had repeatedly doused him in tepid water. The black horse seemed to be rather surprised to find itself suddenly without a rider. The saddle was askew, hanging at an off angle somewhere around the horse’s belly. 

After a second of staring dumbfounded  at his horse, returning  to nuzzle the wet cape on top of his head, the rider surged up, almost toppling over again when he got caught in the cape.  Following what Castiel deemed a rather ridiculous and immensely gratifying performance of flailing limbs and bellowed curses, the rider finally broke free of his cape and examined his mysteriously torn saddle girth. There was some more shouting, knights trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, and pointing around. One of the knights got off his horse, took off his saddle and gave it to the blond knight before taking the ruined saddle off the black horse and placing it on his own. As soon as the new saddle had been securely attached to the black horse - and carefully tested - the knights took off again, leaving the one with the broken saddle to walk his horse along. The riders on horseback took off and soon disappeared around a bend a bit further down the road.

While Castiel did feel guilty for bringing the blond rider into a situation that might well have killed or at least severely injured him or one of his companions, seeing him demand the saddle of one of his peers set Castiel off even more. Just when Castiel might have been about to do something even more foolhardy, Balthazar gave a warning caw, and Castiel could hear the slow, trudging hoof-beats of a heavy farming horse coming up behind him, followed by the sloshing sound of wheels and the rhythmic creaking of a cart. The cart, drawing close at a much more leisurely pace than the riders before, was covered with a heavy  tarp  to protect the goods beneath. As soon as the cart was near enough for its driver to spot Castiel, her eyebrows shot up and a sharp whistle brought the horse to stop.

“Well, don't you look like one drowned chicken,” the woman on the cart drawled. A rain cloak was loosely draped around her shoulders, with the hood pulled up over her head. Straw-blond hair peeked out beneath it. “The roads are good, but you should watch out; they’re slippery after rainfall.”

“Slippery roads are one thing, inconsiderate horsemen another,” Castiel bit out between clenched teeth. “I would have expected the knights of Camelot to be more chivalrous and less of a bunch of  - ”

“Careful, careful, you don't want to be sent to the docks for insulting anybody’s honour now, do you.” Her lips were twitching in amusement. “Where are you headed?”

Upon Castiel’s dejected answer that he was going to Camelot to start an apprenticeship with the archivist that day, the driver offered a sympathetic smile and a ride to the castle. When they rolled past the knight with the broken saddle, Castiel found himself to be extremely interested in the fields on the other side of the road. The woman introduced herself as Ellen Harvelle, the owner of one of the alehouses in the city and a good friend of the court archivist. After he had told the innkeeper his story, carefully leaving out any mention of magic, Castiel admitted that he was a little puzzled how his aunt expected him to learn about medicine from an archivist.

“Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” Ellen chuckled. “He might have started as the archivist, but when the court physician unexpectedly died from a fever a good many years back, the king made Singer take over the physician’s duties. But it turned out that he’s brilliant at it, and the king ended up never bringing in a new one … ” Ellen shrugged. “The king’d rather have a new archivist than a new physician, and Singer, that old grump, keeps grousing about it because he barely ever has time to spend in the archives nowadays,” she said with a fond smile.

Castiel frowned.

“Then who is taking care of the archives?” he asked.

“Well, one of the scribes has been taking over some of his duties, but it’s open knowledge that Singer was basically coaching Prince Samuel as his replacement; the boy spent his childhood sneaking into the archives all the time anyway. Almost set part of them on fire once because he crept in one night with only a candle since he couldn't find a proper lantern and nobody would have allowed him in had he asked anyone  for one . Singer banned him from the archives for half a year and had him copy all the old history books before he was allowed back in. Kind of bit him in the ass, though, cause the kid’s a genius, remembers every single word he ever reads, and now keeps quoting everything back at him,” Ellen grinned. Then she sobered. “Well, that was at least before the prince took off to university. It’s an open secret that the entire thing got pretty ugly. My daughter was working at the castle at the time; apparently it got so bad that the servants were actively trying to avoid being in the same room as the king and Prince Sam. I think Prince Sam leaving like that hit Prince Dean pretty bad… Spent quite a few nights at the Roadhouse .” Ellen sighed.  “Anyway, now Metatron does most of the archivist’s work.”

“Metatron?”

“The scribe. Creepy little know-it-all, insists on having his drinks at the Roadhouse. Bad for custom.” Ellen pulled a face .  “I wish he’d stay out of my tavern, but I guess you’ll have the pleasure of working with him, so I’d probably better shut up and let you make up your own mind.”

Castiel nodded noncommittally. This was just sounding better and better, wasn’t it. 

By now the arrangement of  smaller hills around the more prominent one upon which the castle was artfully placed  was drawing near. Castiel looked around, trying to take everything in. He had been to bigger towns before, but this, this was a city, and a big one at that. The capital city of the country. The castle walls looked intimidatingly high, gleaming white in the sun, the shingles on the roofs of countless towers and on the castle at the highest point of the city sparkled in the bright light. 

They had come close enough at this point to distinguish the flowing banners and flags of Camelot and King John. Both were a deep, rich red, but while the former showed a silver castle on top of a dragon, the latter depicted a complicated knot formed by a golden crown, two golden eyes pierced by multiple silver daggers, and a huge black dragon. On one of the towers a single green flag was fluttering in the breeze. Castiel squinted against the brightness of the sun to see whether he could make out the coat of arms, but all he could see was something black in a silver circle. He figured it didn’t really matter, but curiosity got the better of him.

“Why is there a single green flag?” he asked. “What’s on it?”

“The green one?” Ellen looked up from the road towards the castle towering in front of them a little further up the hill. “That’s Prince Dean. He must’ve come back from a hunting trip. The flag is usually raised to show he’s home. When he was formally  invested  crown prince he chose a black stallion in a silver circle as his coat of arms, but once he becomes king he’s likely going to change it.”

Ellen frowned.

“You seem unhappy about something,” Castiel remarked. Only after did it occur to him that that might not have been the appropriate thing to say. He tried to apologise, but Ellen waved him away.

“Nah, it’s okay. I was just wondering when Prince Samuel’s flag would be up there again. Thing’s have been… strained between the king and the two princes since he went off to university.”

Castiel wanted to ask more, but they were rolling through the city gates, and Ellen’s attention shifted to the guards asking for her documentation and about the contents of the cart, which turned out to be beer, wine, and a couple of other things for the Roadhouse. Once they had entered the city, there was so much to see and hear that Castiel did not know where to look first. The horse moved confidently through the crowded streets and soon the cart rolled to a stop next to a big, mostly wooden building close to the central market place. Big letters above the entrance proclaimed it to be the Roadhouse and Castiel decided it was time for him to say his goodbyes. He thanked Ellen profusely, who told him to come by for a drink some time and to pass her greetings to Bobby.

“Tell him to come down here for a drink some time too,” she ordered Castiel, before pointing him in the direction of the castle. Castiel thanked her again, and, after hopping off the cart, he promised to relay her message and waved goodbye. 

 The gate to the street was pushed open and a young man with a strange hairstyle Castiel had never seen before took hold of Ellen’s horse, guiding it into the yard beyond the wall and towards a barn where Castiel expected the stables to be. Castiel could see barrels lining the walls of the yard inside, stacked on top of each other. A young woman with long blond hair joined the people in the yard and gave Ellen a hug.

Moving to the side of the market place, Castiel inspected his clothing. It was almost mid-day now and his clothes had mostly dried. His boots had not, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that; there were people everywhere and he didn’t dare sneak into one of the private yards leading off the main street for cover. Patting his clothes, Castiel did his best to dislodge the dried mud, which mostly worked. He still looked a bit like a mole who had been picked out of the ground and left to dry, but it would have to do. He did not have anything to change into since Hannah insisted he only bring his best change of clothes to the city; torn farming clothes would not do for the court she had said. Then she had given him a couple of coins and told him to get something new and appropriate when he was there. Castiel hoped he would not have to use all of the money for clothes. Maybe he could send some of it back to Hannah.

Castiel walked up the rest of the hill to the castle,  Balthazar  continuing to follow him in the air, or hopping from rooftop to rooftop if it took Castiel longer to navigate a particularly crowded patch. A court of crows and a couple of ravens perched on the gate to one of the inner rings of the city, eyeing Castiel with interest. Castiel gave them a small but respectful nod; it wouldn't do to anger the Ravenfolk.

The city seemed in a festive mood, and there were colourful banners waving from many lampposts and some of the houses. At the castle gates, two guards stepped in his way and asked where he was headed. Castiel wasn’t sure whether he should ask for the court physician or the royal archivist, but the guards immediately knew who he was looking for and pointed him to a tower a little to the side of the main building across the courtyard. 

Once he had made his way up from the gate to the courtyard, Castiel found himself at the edges of a crowd gathered around something half-way between the middle of the courtyard and the entrance to the main building of the castle, above which there perched a broad balcony. The courtyard was decorated with the same colourful banners as the rest of the city. On the balcony there stood the king, flanked by two guards on each side. Flags of Camelot billowed next to the king’s own. The people below were chatting excitedly and Castiel wondered what they were waiting for. Slowly, he dodged and twisted until he stood directly in front of the centre of attention: a wooden podium covered with straw, with an ominously rusty wooden block and a basket in the middle.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Before Castiel could fully process what he was seeing, fanfares sounded and the king stepped onto the balcony. The people cheered. The king stepped forward to the balustrade and waved at the people below. The king had to have given some kind of sign, or maybe it had all been orchestrated beforehand, but suddenly the fanfares stopped and drums started beating out the chilling rhythm of an execution. Castiel noticed the guards positioned all along the confines of the courtyard. A heavily armed gate opposite the tower that Castiel needed opened, and a group of six guards brought out a haggard-looking man who had likely been tortured. Crusty red welts covered his chained wrists and the sack-like cloth he was wearing was covered in stains. Soggy straws clung to the rough fabric and fell to the ground as the man staggered along in the hold of the guards. The courtyard was dead silent as the drums accompanied the man to the podium and up to the block in the middle.

Once there, the drums performed a spirited crescendo before they were waved off by the king. King John let his eyes roam over the people below. When he finally addressed them, his demeanour was kingly and his voice left no room for argument.

“Twenty-five years ago,” the king began his speech, “magic was driven from these lands. For twenty-five years, Camelot has experienced growth and prosperity.

“I have fought monsters; I have faced the evil of magic. My dear queen was killed in the struggle before I finally killed the spawn of darkness that had taken her prisoner. Today, we celebrate our freedom from these monsters, monsters born from magic, whose only goal is to wreck havoc and to devour anybody in their path.

“Today we celebrate freedom from humans corrupted by magic, corrupted by the beasts that are born of it, infected by the darkness and evil of magic. For twenty-five years we have had no need to fear the dark, for its children have been eradicated. All of us have lost dear ones to the darkness of magic, seeing them become creatures of magic with no trace left of the people we loved, who we spent, who we shared our lives with. I have paid dearly for it, I have lost much in the fight, but there are no more magical monsters in all of Camelot, and this we celebrate today.”

The king made a pause long enough for all the people to begin cheering for their bereft, but triumphant, monarch. He smiled indulgently and raised his hands to quiet the people again. He was playing his audience very well. The prisoner stood on his platform, shoulders hunched and shaking softly.

“But most importantly,” King John continued with increasing vigour, “today we celebrate twenty-five years of the most precious freedom of them all: freedom from magic-wielding sorcerers and witches who would have us fall beneath their spells, take away our free will, and rule the land in chaos and horror. Freedom from warlocks and druids and priestesses of evil, with no sense of right or wrong, of loyalty, of love. Today we celebrate this hard-won freedom.

“However, some would have these times of unspeakable horrors, of chaos, death and darkness, return. This will not, this _cannot_ , be tolerated. Much blood has been spilled to rid this land of the evils of magic, and if I have to spill more blood to keep these lands safe, then I will do this gladly, be it somebody else’s or my own. The laws of Camelot know no mercy for practitioners of magic and their allies.”

The king let a hard look travel over all the people below. There was no cheering this time, only an eerie quietness fraught with expectation that stemmed in equal parts from fear and excitement.

“This man, Adam of Windom, has been found guilty of knowingly sheltering a sorceress. He may have even wielded magic himself, both in private and in public, mixing potions and selling them to unsuspecting citizens. The possession and use of magic is punishable by death in Camelot, and so is helping anybody who is connected to magic, directly by being a user of magic, or indirectly by aiding one. This leaves me with only one judgement I can pass: death. Since today is a day of celebrations, and since it has not been proven that he has actively used magic himself, I will show kindness - more kindness than any of them have ever shown us: I will grant him a quick death. So instead of being bled and quartered for his deeds of evil, I rule that he shall be beheaded, a much cleaner death than is his due.”

The drums picked up again as the king lifted his hand. The man’s shirt was torn away and his neck was forcefully pressed down onto the block. Before Castiel could turn away, the king’s hand fell and with it the man’s head.

There was shouting among the people, somewhere a child cried, some people cheered, some who had been too eager and had stood too close to the podium cursed about the blood that had splattered onto their clothes. A few guards moved in and carried away the body. More straw was brought to soak up the blood. The basket with the head inside was closed and carried away as well. The head would probably be put up at the castle walls for all to see.

Castiel felt sick. He hoped he wasn't swaying as much as he thought he was. He also hoped that he wouldn't throw up in the middle of the courtyard. And more than anything else he hoped that nobody was able to tell that he had any magic. How would he survive here? How the blazing dragon fires was he supposed to stay undetected and alive? What had Hannah been thinking? Why Camelot of all places? Didn't she have any other friends where she could have sent him? How had they never heard about the real horror of these laws?

Panicking, he remembered Balthazar - where was he? Hopefully he wouldn't choose this moment to sweep down and do something stupid. Or land on his shoulder. Who knew whether having a pet crow already counted as magic? Scanning the air around him, he spotted Balthazar on top of one of the flag staffs protruding from the upper levels of the buildings around them. The crow held itself stiffly, staring wide-eyed at the scene below, and Castiel was almost sure that the bird’s beak looked as green as his face felt. In any case, Balthazar did not seem to be planning any eye-catching sweeping, and for the moment Castiel tried to calm himself down, at least in this respect.

The king raised his hand again, and slowly the ruckus died down.

“Now,” the king intoned like a caring father bringing home a treat for his children, “let us celebrate! Today everybody will receive food and drink, and we shall all eat, drink, and be merry!”

With that, the king turned around in a great flourish and went back inside.

Castiel stood in a daze, waiting for his thoughts to clear and his knees to stop shaking. Now that the spectacle was over, the people quickly disappeared, heading to the stands by the gates which promised sweet-cakes and free ale. The thought of eating anything right now made Castiel gag.

Still somewhat lost, he turned around himself, away from the podium where the bloodied straw was still lying. It took him a moment to locate the tower the guard had shown him before the stomach-turning interlude. Not entirely sure which one of the towers the guard had meant and afraid of going anywhere he wasn't supposed to be, he asked another guard for the court-physician. When the man took one look at Castiel's green nose, he laughed and joked about Castiel wanting to see the physician because his poor little stomach had been upset by the gory display. Castiel only nodded weakly. He felt too bone-tired to explain that he was the new apprentice.

Following the guard’s outstretched hand, Castiel made his way past the podium, trying not to look at it anymore, and into the tower. When the door closed behind him, he sighed with relief. A small, hand-written sign on the wall pointed upstairs. Castiel looked at it, eyebrows raised. It had probably once read “royal archivist”, but that had been crossed out rather energetically, and “court physician” had been scrawled in thick, angry letters on top of it. Still, the sign was pointing upstairs, so Castiel carefully started climbing the winding stairs.

To his surprise, the tower served mostly as a servant’s staircase, connecting the main building with one of the secondary buildings. There were no rooms in the tower itself, which, respectively, Castiel had to admit was rather obvious. Apart from maybe a small room on the top, there was simply not enough space in the tower for anything like an actual room. It really was only a glorified staircase. However, soon enough Castiel found another little sign, equally re-designed, this one directly next to one of the many doors leading away from the tower-staircase to the secondary building.

Castiel knocked, but there was no answer. He knocked again, a little louder this time, but still, nothing. After he had waited a little, just in case the physician was occupied, he knocked again. When there still was no answer, he tried the door. To his surprise, it creaked open. Stepping inside, Castiel looked around and found himself in a large room lined with shelves which were filled with countless books and scrolls. Obviously the shelves had long reached their capacity and the paper had spilt onto any available surfaces. Stacks of books reached from the floor more than halfway to the ceiling. Any surface, tables, banks, armoires, that had managed to escape the flood of books were covered in bottles, boxes, and a wide array of other paraphernalia that Castiel could not even begin to name. More pouches and bunches of herbs dangled from the ceiling.

In the midst of all this chaos, it took Castiel a moment to locate the owner of the room. Looking around, he finally found a smaller door off towards the right side of the room, hidden behind an arrangement of stacked books and pots with what looked like kitchen herbs. A vase with peacock feathers and a stepladder leading up to a balcony that ran along the entire wall of the room completed the picture. The balcony appeared to be housing more shelves and, unsurprisingly, more books. Castiel carefully walked around the precarious structure and stepped over a stack of tiny wooden chests. He picked his way to the door and found that it lead to a very narrow but rather twisted corridor, at the end of which there was a decently sized roof-garden facing away from the castle. The court-physician was tending to a tall, variegated plant with velvety leaves, bright green on the one side and white on the other.

Castiel cleared his throat.

The archivist twisted around, and before Castiel could keep himself from reacting, the silver sickle that had barely been pressed to his throat was flying through the air, over the balustrade, down into the castle’s training grounds. The elderly man who had attacked him on such swift feet sat slumped against the balustrade. A pot with a bright, red plant lay in shards next to him. The crushed plant gave off a citrusy scent and the man groaned. He visibly paled when he noticed the sorry remains of the plant.

“Bloody idiot! Bring me that pot with water, quickly!” he barked.

Too shocked to do anything other than obey, Castiel picked up the pot and brought it over. Obviously holding his breath, the physician picked up the mangled plant and threw it into the pot, left over earth and all. Once he had checked that the roots were completely submerged, he sighed in relief. Then he remembered Castiel and rounded on him.

“Freakin’ fuckin’ dragon on a seahorse! Do you have any idea what the scent of this plant does to a human?!” Not receiving any answer apart from a wide-eyed stare, the man really got into Castiel’s face. “Who by the bloody great dragon are you anyway? Why are you here?!” The physician’s hands went up to his head trying to adjust something that wasn’t there. Apparently only now realising that he had lost the slightly dirty cap he had been wearing before Castiel’s unintended effort to defend himself, the physician looked around and, grabbing the cap from the floor near the wall, put it back onto his head. This apparently also brought back the memories of his head’s recent contact with said wall. Castiel felt the floor drop away from beneath his feet and the scene in the courtyard flashed before his eyes. The physician’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I say,” he started, “you get talking real quick now, son, and you better get to the part about how you just did this real soon.”

Castiel felt his heart racing in his chest and his throat had suddenly become much too dry to say anything at all. He opened his mouth, but his tongue refused to cooperate. Helplessly, he tried again, but apart from making him look like a fish on dry land, that accomplished little.

The archivist sighed.

“Calm down, boy, I’m not planning on calling the guards on you just yet. Come on. Start at the beginning, introduce yourself, that should be an easy enough start,” the old man said, calmly. Castiel didn’t believe for one second that he was off the hook. The man’s eyes were much too wily for that. Castiel swallowed and did his best to calm himself down. Coming to the conclusion that Hannah’s letter might be the best explanation he could provide, he finally managed to break free from his salt-pillar-like state and moved to rummage around for the letter in his satchel.

The physician snorted.

“You better not be taking anything out of that satchel without telling me first, or you won’t have enough time to pull another stunt before I call for the guards.”

Castiel immediately returned to his imitation of a pillar of salt, his skin once more taking on somewhat of the same complexion.

“I-I mean no harm,” he finally managed to croak out. He swallowed again, hoping he could somehow make his voice sound more confident. The results were questionable. “I am Castiel, Hannah’s nephew. She said she talked to you, I’m supposed to be your new apprentice. I have a letter. From her. In the bag.” Castiel felt it was prudent to add that last detail. “I will give it to you if I may…?”

The physician blinked.

“Castiel? You’re Castiel?”

He looked Castiel up and down.

“Huh. Had a close encounter with our wonderful, slippery roads, hadn’t you? Told them it was a stupid idea building those walls around the road. Protection my ass.”

That was not the reaction Castiel had expected, but it was definitely better than being handed over to the guards for execution. Very slowly, and keeping his hands in clear view as much as he could, he reached into his satchel and dug out the letter. The physician practically snatched it out of his hand. His eyes quickly scanned over the text, always darting back to Castiel.

“You’re early. You were supposed to be here on Wednesday.”

It was Castiel who blinked this time.

“It… is Wednesday.”

“It’s Tuesday, dimwit.”

Castiel coloured beet-red and silently cursed Balthazar to eternal damnation and back again. He thought he could hear Balthazar cackling, mischief evident in his voice. Come to think of it, he _could_ hear Balthazar cackling. Searching the roofs around him, he finally found the bird sitting on the beams of the roof that was covering part of the upper level of the terrace. The physician followed his gaze.

“That one with you?” he asked, with no surprise whatsoever.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Balthazar gave an enraged croak and flew off.

“Testy, testy,” the old man said with a hint of amusement in his voice. Then he grew serious again.

“So, ‘special talents’ is what Hannah is saying here, and I take it she’s not referring to your skills with herbs, given the fiasco with the cinnabáris over there.” The archivist gave him a hard look. “Out with it. Where did you study? And what the ever loving dragon fires were you thinking, studying magic and then coming to bloody paranoid Camelot of all places?!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t study magic, at all, I have no idea…-“

“That’s completely impossible! Do you take me for a fool?! Don’t you dare lie to me or I’ll hand you over to King John, Hannah’s charge or not!”

“Honestly! I swear! I have never ever studied magic, it’s just something… it’s part of me, it’s never not been there! I can’t make it go away, it’s like breathing, it’s there, always, and I swear I usually have much better control over what I’m doing, I’m just-“

“Well, you better have, if you’re planning on sticking around under John’s nose,” the old man grumbled, and Castiel felt his face burn. “But still, I have never heard of anything like this. Why are you lying? It won’t make any difference to the king whether you spent years studying magic or whether you were born with it. He will have you killed before you could even tell him.”

Castiel had never felt so helpless before. His voice was laced with desperation when he spoke again.

“I do not know how I could assure you that I am telling the truth, other than with my words and Hannah’s letter. But I promise, I have never once met anybody who had magic like myself, or even somebody who had acquired the knowledge of magic through study, or even a book of magic…! I was born this way; Hannah could not explain it, and I do not know how or why either. Please, I swear, by everything that I am, I am telling you nothing but the truth.”

The archivist sighed and shook his head.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but in all my years I have never heard of anything like this at all. But as I said, possible or not, miracle or curse, the king will not ask you. He will have no mercy. So if you plan on sticking around, be the hell more careful from now on and keep your head down if you want to keep it on your shoulders. This entire city, the entire kingdom, is completely paranoid, and nobody more so than the king, and maybe Prince Dean.” The physician gave him a hard look. “I promised Hannah that I would keep you safe, and I intend to do that, even with this… turn of events.”

Castiel could only nod; his throat was closing up with relief and gratitude.

“Now, your room is opposite the door, of the main room I mean, the one with the window to the courtyard. Take your stuff there and then go down and bring me back my sickle,” the physician continued.

“Of course, sir, immediately. Thank you very much, sir,” Castiel felt his shoulders sag with relief and he scurried towards the door, almost falling over himself apologising and saying thank you.

The physician snorted again. Castiel thought he was doing a lot of snorting, barking, and grumbling, but by the looks of it that was the man’s favoured mode of communication.

“I ain’t no sir to you. The name’s Bobby, Bobby Singer. Your parents and I were close friends. Long time back, but yeah, good people. Family. Hannah’s probably right sending you to me; boy like you does need to learn some stuff, so there’s that,” Bobby scoffed. “Now, chop-chop, scurry, will you, and don’t you dare come back without that sickle. Pure silver, said to have been made by Mab herself. 'D hate to lose it.”

“Thank you, Bobby. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Just stay out of trouble.”

With that, Bobby waved Castiel away and turned back to the pot with the cinnabáris. He was stroking his beard and mumbling under his breath. Castiel was sure he heard a couple of rather fond sounding cusses. Castiel smiled. He could already see that the rough, portly exterior was housing a surprisingly soft core.

Back in the main room it did not take him long to find the room that would be his for the foreseeable future. It was not very big, but it was clean, and there was everything Castiel could possibly need: a bed, a chest of drawers, a table and a chair, even a small bedside table with a candle holder and a couple of candles. A window opened to the courtyard four storeys below, and while Castiel suspected the view to be quite nice, he had no desire to be reminded of the scene that had taken place down there not an hour ago.

Quickly putting away the few contents of his satchel, Castiel wondered whether he should do anything about his clothes, but who knew whether King John had any way to tell whether anybody was using magic somewhere in the castle or the city? Also, Castiel figured that Bobby would probably have his hide should he discover Castiel was stupid enough to be using magic in his own quarters… At least his coat had stayed mostly dry. On the other hand, his shoes were still soaked. He had taken them off on the cart, emptied them and put them up to dry, together with his mud-brown socks, but while the socks had dried off at least somewhat, the leather had not. Plus, there was still mud inside them since he hadn’t had any water to actually clean them properly. Castiel bit his lip. Surely nobody would notice if he just dried his boots? There could only be very few things less comfortable than wet leather boots. On the other hand, the display in the courtyard would probably keep Castiel’s usually healthy appetite down for a couple of days. Recalling the king’s words, he suddenly realised that merely by letting Castiel stay Bobby had already put himself in danger, let alone that Bobby knew about Castiel’s magic. Castiel sighed. Wet boots it was. He untied his coat and slipped it on. At least he wouldn’t look quite as dirty.

He went back to the main room and looked for a clothes brush. Once he was outside he’d give them a good brushing to get rid of the dried off dirt; he’d have to do that anyway if he didn’t want to change the washing water every minute later on. Castiel sighed, again. He’d have to try to figure out if there was any way to track magic, because otherwise he would be stuck doing every little thing by hand. Also, even the idea of not being able to use any magic at all, ever, made his throat close up and his chest feel tight. Castiel forced himself to take deep breaths. No reason to panic. He’d figure things out. He was positive that Bobby would help him if he asked.

Once outside, Castiel rigorously brushed his clothes and then went to look for the way to the training grounds. His assumption that they would have to be easily accessible from the stables and the soldiers’ barracks turned out correct, however, the training grounds also turned out to be unexpectedly big, with an entire side lined by the city walls and the other side by the walls of the castle. Castiel looked up, trying to spy Bobby’s roof terrace, but from this far down all the balustrades looked the same. He would have to walk along the wall and scan the ground, carefully making his way further and further into the field until he had found the sickle. Castiel bit back a curse. He had not had anything to eat since his 'breakfast', and he was getting cranky, both because of the early start and the day he had had so far, and because of his growling stomach. But there was nothing for it; what had to be done…

It did occur to Castiel that he could ask Balthazar for help, but while he was sure the crow was around here somewhere, he did not dare call for the bird. Paranoid as the city was, people might be quick to go from well-trained bird to magical bird, and that was not something Castiel wanted to risk. While there was no way to prove that the crow had anything to do with magic whatsoever, there was no way to prove the opposite either, and Castiel decided to remind Balthazar to be careful. The Ravenfolk were loyal to a fault, and any foolhardy negligence on either part would not be received well.

Consigning himself to his fate of empty-bellied sickle-searching, Castiel began wandering along the wall, keeping his eyes trained to the ground. Soon he was lost in thought, and when he suddenly bumped into something warm and solid, it took him a moment to realise what had happened.

When he first looked up, Castiel was utterly confused why he was still seeing grass in front of him. The grass turned out to be a pair of mesmerizingly green eyes. Green like grass in the sunlight, or like the bright morning sun when it shone through the leaves of the trees in the forest, early in spring, when the leaves were still- The eyes narrowed in anger. Castiel found himself shoved back roughly, and the equally rough collision of his posterior with the castle grounds effectively tore him from his reverie. He shook his head and scrunched up his eyes in an effort to find back to himself.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? What were you doing, walking with your friggin’ eyes closed?” a deep voice roared.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel finally looked up again, and, to his dismay, discovered that the fantasy-green pair of eyes belonged to the blond knight from earlier today. Castiel swallowed. The knight was tall, probably a bit taller and much bulkier than himself, and while obviously an utter asshole, he was equally obviously an utterly beautiful asshole. Castiel frowned. That was not something he’d thought he’d ever think. It sounded unfortunate, even in his head. Still, the central statement stood: the knight scowling down at him was most likely the most physically perfect person Castiel had ever seen.

“I asked you a question, you brainless moron!”

“Um, what?”

“Fucking hell, I don’t believe this. Somebody get this fumbling idiot off my damned training field!”

Castiel bristled as he got to his feet.

“Clearly you were only using the other half of the field. I am not an ignorant fool; if you had been practising on this side, I would have never simply walked around in the first place. Also, I was under the impression that you are a knight, but obviously I must have been mistaken, because I was always told that knights are chivalrous,” Castiel countered, voice full of every bit of haughty disdain he could muster.

The knight in front of him stared at him before he turned almost the exact same colour as the cape he had worn in the morning. Remembering him sitting in the puddle of mud, more mud splattered all over him, gave Castiel immense satisfaction.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?!” the knight finally hollered, puffing out his chest.

“Well, to a knight, but as I said, I was obviously mistaken,” Castiel shot back. “I’m obviously talking to a mud-monkey, considering how you looked this morning!”

If possible, the knight’s face got even redder.

“And how would you know about that?!”

“Well, if you hadn’t almost ridden over me with your gang of fellow imbeciles, your saddle might not have given out beneath you!” Castiel found himself shouting back.

“Oh, were you the idiot walking in the middle of the road this morning?! Also, that doesn’t even make any sense!”

“I was not in the middle of the road!” Castiel realised that pointing out that the saddle might have been a punishment was not one of his brightest ideas, but he found it incredibly hard to keep a straight head right now. “And maybe it was karma!”

“That’s utter bullshit!”

“Then maybe your riding skills are just leaving that much to be desired!” Castiel couldn’t summon up the last time he had been in a shouting match with anybody, much less in public. But try as he might to find back to his usual level-headed self, the man in front of him was rubbing him so much in the wrong way that backing off simply wasn’t an option. Also, by now they had gathered quite an audience, both knights and other people.

The knight smirked.

“Oh, trust me, my riding skills are just fine,” he leered, exaggeratedly, giving Castiel a pointed once-over. Castiel practically swallowed his tongue. He could only stare at the man. Castiel wasn’t just afraid but pretty sure that he was gaping, and most likely the colour of a tomato with sunburn. The other knights laughed. The asshat in front of him was clearly enjoying himself. “Though I have to say, I do have some standards.”

The laughter went up another notch and the knight all but patted his own shoulder, basking in his audience’s appreciation. It was then that the already brittle thread of Castiel’s patience snapped.

“You’ve clearly got no sense of respect or common decency for anybody around you! You’re a spoilt, selfish brat, to talk to people like this, and to ask for somebody else’s saddle instead of walking yourself! Maybe you need a dip in the mud more often to teach you some humility!”

There was a collective gasp.

“Oh boy, here we go…” a female knight standing close mumbled under her breath.

The knight suddenly grew very still, stepped into Castiel’s space, and in a dangerously low voice asked: “And you think you’re the one to teach me this lesson?” He let his eyes wander down Castiel’s body and his obviously dirty clothes,  then up again. “Clearly, you have a lot of experience with mud, but I think humility I will have to teach you.”

“Trust me, if there’s any teaching, it will be me doing it,” Castiel scoffed.

Suddenly the knight looked rather amused.

“So you think you can take me on, yes?”

“Pah, nothing easier than that. If I were you, I wouldn’t provoke me,” Castiel said. “You have no idea what I am capable of.”

“Uhhh, I’m shaking in my boots,” the knight said while pretending to shake comically. “I’ve been training since I was able to walk, so bring it on - do your worst!”

The knight stood in front of him, an infuriatingly cocky grin on his stupidly handsome face, posture relaxed for the upcoming fight. They were standing in a circle of peasants, farmers, tradesmen, craftsmen, knights, nobles and anybody else who the shouting had drawn close. It was just about then that Castiel realised that he had no way to back up his threats. Sure, he could throw a good punch, and Cain, a former soldier, had shown him how to defend himself. He was, in fact, rather handy with the long dagger, but he doubted that he was of any actual use without his magic. Cain had known about his magic and when they’d been practising he had told Castiel over and over again to practice the moves without relying on his magic to carry him through them. Castiel, however, had found it extremely difficult to block the magic from flowing through him and going with the flow like that on the one hand, and on the other, not using any magic at all had made the movements themselves extremely difficult and tiresome. So Castiel had never really bothered. Which was now hitting him on the head like a forgotten boomerang.

Long story short, he was most likely about to not only take a beating, but look like a complete idiot in the process.

“Well, I wonder what the king says about his knights beating up innocent people and behaving like a bunch of assholes?” Castiel knew he was grasping at straws. For some reason the people around him were suddenly either laughing or gaping at him with a mixture of pity or disbelief. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it though, because he saw the blond knight move and, figuring that he would at least go down fighting, he hastily threw something loosely resembling a punch.

The next thing he knew was that his arm was twisted around his back and that he was held down firmly by a hand on his neck. The blond knight was breathing into his ear. It tickled. Very weirdly. It was definitely weirding Castiel out.

“The king will tell you the same thing I’m going to tell you now, namely that you can’t talk to me like that!”

“Well, who do you think you are, the king?!” Castiel spat.

The grip holding him down tightened, painfully, for a second. When the knight spoke again, his voice was strained. Castiel probably wouldn’t have noticed had he not been pressed against the speaker and felt how much more rigid his posture had become.

“I am not my father,” the knight silently bit out between his teeth. There was a ragged, deep breath. Then the knight continued, tone smug and relaxed once again. “So no. I am not the king. I am his son. Prince Dean. The crown prince.”

Castiel groaned. Of course he was. Of course Castiel would manage to antagonise the crown prince within hours of arriving at Camelot. The fact that the prince had started the entire thing would probably not make much of a difference in Castiel’s punishment. Because Castiel had no delusions that even though the prince had been an ass, it would be Castiel reaping the fruits. And Castiel _had_ thrown a punch at the prince. A sorry excuse of one, but still. He had physically assaulted royalty. In addition to having been completely out of line verbally. In hindsight, he realised that he would have already been crossing the line had he been talking to just a knight; after all, he was basically a peasant, and all knights were nobles, some by birth and all by having proven themselves worthy of the title in deeds. Just his luck that the presumed knight had turned out to be the heir to the throne. He had insulted and assaulted the future king in his own castle. Castiel felt a little faint. He thanked whatever spirit was listening that he had at least refrained from using any magic at all. Otherwise he would probably already be carried off to the block. Or the noose. Or whatever else since he was actually a user of magic and not just somebody who had helped a sorcerer. The pyre probably.

He felt his knees threatening to give way underneath him and hoped fervently that he would be spared at least the indignity of crumbling in on himself. What did one do in a situation like that? Apologise profusely? Beg for mercy? Given what he had seen of the king and his son so far, Castiel was beginning to get the impression that true mercy was not something the rulers of Camelot were overly fond of. What would be the punishment for a crime like Castiel’s? He hoped that death was too severe a price to pay for the kind of inordinate behaviour Castiel had shown, but who knew. Maybe he would spend the rest of his youth in the dungeons.

His mental ramblings came to an abrupt stop when he was relieved from the prince’s hold and got reacquainted with the ground much sooner than he had any desire to. At least here the ground was rather firm and not even remotely as muddy as the road had been. _Good thing I haven’t washed my clothes yet_ , a pragmatic part of his brain offered helpfully.

By the time Castiel had picked himself up and regained any awareness of his surroundings, a couple of guards had arrived. The prince and his knights had returned to practising and the crowd was slowly drifting away.

When Bobby came looking for him a few hours later, he found Castiel next to the stocks, in the process of trying to pick himself clean of all the rotten fruit and vegetables that had been thrown at him during the afternoon. Balthazar had spent Castiel’s time in the stocks merrily dipping down from the balustrades and picking up choice pieces of broken fruit. The vegetable stew Bobby had made for dinner felt like a bad joke. Going by Bobby’s grin when he was serving it, the old man knew exactly what he was doing.

“I thought I’d told you to keep your head down.”

Castiel ducked his head. Bobby sounded royally pissed off. Castiel cringed mentally at the pun. The stocks didn’t allow for one’s head to rise very high what with the wooden block around the neck.

“I know, I’m sorry, Bobby. It’s just-”

“What the hell were you thinking, laying into the prince like that? In _public_?!”

Bobby sounded as if he was more upset with Castiel for having had witnesses than for having attacked the prince in the first place. Castiel looked at him, bewildered.

“I’m not saying that it wasn’t stupid to insult the prince at all, but in public? Were you trying to get sent to the dungeons? Or were you aiming for a public flogging? Because that’s what you get for insulting royalty! Have you got any idea how lucky you were?! I still can’t believe you only got sent to the stocks, and then only for barely an afternoon!”

Bobby glared at Castiel. It was an impressive glare. Castiel shifted on his seat. He had the urgent desire to dig a hole and disappear in it.

“I really am sorry, Bobby, I don’t know what got into me, I never react like that!” Castiel pleaded. He looked up at the other man, helplessness written all over his face. “I honestly don’t know what happened, but I have never met anybody so… infuriatingly smug, inconsiderate, contemptible, loathsome, reprehensible, odious, horrid, obnoxious, offensive, distasteful, base, ignominious, ignoble, disreputable, utterly despicable, and self-centred, and disgustingly green-eyed, and cocky, and-”

Castiel had jumped up and was barely noticing how he was talking himself into more and more of a rage, when he was brought up short by Bobby chuckling loudly. He froze mid-step and turned to look at Bobby, chagrined. Barely contained mirth was dancing in the other man’s eyes.

“Boy got under your skin, didn’t he,” Bobby snickered.

Castiel felt himself blushing and wanted to say more, but since his teacher was obviously only waiting for Castiel to incriminate himself further, Castiel quickly closed his mouth again.

Bobby’s silent laughter followed him until he was already lying down in his bed. Stupid prince.

The next morning, when he had asked Bobby at breakfast whether the king had anything to sense magic, Bobby had stared at him for a full minute before almost falling off his chair laughing. From what Castiel had seen of Bobby so far, he assumed that this was not a common sight and probably not something he should be proud of to have managed to bring into being. Once Bobby had been able to breath again, he had explained that in order to detect magic one obviously needed magic, or at least something in some way endowed with magic.

“Obviously, using magic to find magic’s not something the king could do; and saying that, the king would not be able to do it himself anyway - never studied magic himself, always let other people do his dirty work,” Bobby explained. Upon Castiel’s puzzled view he elaborated. “Well, how d’you think he got rid of all the sorcerers and witches and whatnots during the Great Purge? Somebody with no magic ain’t no use against a sorcerer. So, he told the sorcerers loyal to him that he was only getting rid of the bad eggs, but since he’s a backstabbing bastard, he then had those either backhandedly killed or gave them the choice between swearing off their magic and exile when he completely banned magic by the end of it. Most chose exile, but many had family and friends, and between being no longer allowed to use magic and never seeing their loved ones again, forgoing magic was the lesser evil.”

Castiel stared at Bobby horrified. That was a choice Castiel could never imagine making. The thought of never ever again using magic had made him panic the night before, and he could feel the dreadful tightness crawling up his chest again. Bobby noticed his discomfort and frowned.

“You okay over there?” the old man asked, concern evident in his voice.

Castiel nodded weakly.

“It’s… I’m okay. It’s of no concern.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

“It’s just… I imagined having to live my life without ever being able to use magic, and it feels as if I had been told to hold my breath forever. Even just the thought…” Castiel shook his head. “That’s why I asked whether the king could tell if anybody was using magic on castle grounds. I need to know whether I can at least do small stuff - I mean really, really small things, things that will not draw any attention at all, that nobody will notice - in my room. I would never do anything to endanger you; that would be a very poor way to repay you for your kindness.”

Bobby just looked at Castiel for a long while before he finally spoke.

“There is nothing per se to detect magic in the castle, although it is, in fact, heavily warded. However, since you’ve entered the city and the castle without any alarms going off, I assume you and the presence of your magic haven’t set off any of them. Though you’d probably have to use your magic to know for sure…” Bobby trailed off, considering. “Then again, the wards are old, but as far as I know, at least some of them might still hold; I’d suspect the king of renewing them regularly, but I doubt he could have kept doing that for twenty-five years without anybody noticing. It’s much more likely that John is so sure of his work and his iron rule and that nothing escapes it that he didn’t even think he’d need to renew them.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first case of somebody’s inflated ego screwing ’em over.”

Bobby sounded surprisingly unconcerned, talking about the king this way, considering how he had railed at Castiel for insulting the prince yesterday. Castiel mentally scoffed at the hypocrisy of it, but then shrugged. They were in private, so maybe Bobby really only had been upset about the public part of the entire thing. Although Castiel surmised that insulting the prince to his face had been a really stupid idea anyway, public or not. Castiel took it as a show of trust that Bobby didn’t mince words, but then, should Castiel choose to denunciate Bobby, it would be a walk in the park for the man to get Castiel into trouble instead. Bobby was a valued and long-standing member of the court, and Castiel was the nobody who had tried to deck the prince. He doubted that more than a simple accusation of being a warlock would be necessary anyway, but if it came from Bobby, Castiel’s fate would likely be sealed.

Right now, however, Castiel did not wish to dwell any longer on his precarious state of safety. What Bobby was saying about wards sounded much more interesting than any more musings about yesterday’s… incident. Castiel knew nothing of wards; he would have to rectify that. But where should he start looking? As he understood it, all books on magic had been banned, and, as far as he knew, they might even have been destroyed. From what he had heard about the king so far, King John was either completely lacking the foresight of seeing how useful having that knowledge at his disposal might turn out to be in the future, or he knew well enough and kept all the information locked away somewhere, to be accessed only in times of dire need and only by people he trusted completely. Seeing as Bobby was both the archivist, if at the moment only nominally, and the physician, if not entirely voluntarily, he was probably one of those people who had the king’s trust, at least in some respect. If Bobby didn’t know anything about wards and magic himself, Castiel gathered that he would at least be able to point him in the right direction. Hannah had, after all, indicated that the person to whom she was sending him might be able to help him further his education, and Castiel was starting to think that Hannah, very likely, had not had exclusively medicine in mind when she had said that. He did wonder though how he would breach that topic with Bobby. It was one thing getting a history lesson; it was entirely another asking somebody if they were a traitor to the crown.

Bobby had finished taking a few sips of what Castiel strongly suspected was not breakfast tea, at least not one hundred percent, and continued, pulling Castiel back from his reverie.

“There are a few very old and incredibly rare amulets that can indicate whether a person has used magic recently; traces of magic cling to the aura of the person using it. They wear away after a couple of weeks, but if the magic is fresh, the amulets will glow. I know of no such amulet in all of Camelot, 'cause you bet your ass the king would’ve kept one of those around, law against magic or not. In any case, if you’re planning on using your magic inside the city, I’d suggest having a distraction ready.”

Castiel looked at Bobby, wide-eyed. He could not tell whether the other man was joking. In any case, after his initial reaction, the physician seemed to have taken a rather relaxed approach to handling Castiel’s magic. Castiel wasn’t sure he shared that attitude, but the advice seemed the best under the circumstances. He would have to see if he could find out anything more.

They finished breakfast and Bobby sent Castiel off to deliver a handful of elixirs and serums to people all over the castle. One of the scribes had a cough and two of the noble women residing at court were constantly complaining about being under the weather. There was an antiseptic serum and a cream for one of the guards who had been wounded in a recent battle, although Bobby suspected strongly that said battle had been with an unfortunately placed pitchfork on the way home from the tavern. To his vexation, the last item Bobby handed him, and it rankled Castiel greatly that Bobby did that with a broad grin, was a small bottle for the prince.

“You can just leave it in his quarters; he knows what it is and how to take it.”

Castiel took the phial without a word. He was one hundred percent convinced that the purpose of the slightly bluish liquid inside was strongly connected to the prince’s nighttime activities. He scowled at Bobby. Bobby’s mouth twitched at Castiel’s face.

Finally, Bobby gave him orders to stop at the market on his way back and to pick up a couple of boxes of medicinal herbs that had supposedly arrived earlier in the morning.

Finding his way through the castle for the first time was much like making sense of a maze. The main part of the castle had been built all in one go when it had been first constructed, but King John had added much to it since he had become king. The newer parts had been fitted so seamlessly to the older ones, however, that there was no way to tell them apart for somebody who had no idea what the old castle had looked like.

Castiel discovered that he was not good with mazes. Having an excellent memory only made recognising all the rooms, staircases, and hallways he had already trudged through before easier. When he asked the same maid for help for the fifth time, the girl took pity on him and, handing him three-quarters of her pile of white linen, took him on a tour of the castle. On the way, Meg told Castiel about the different wings of the castle and where he was likely to find whom at what time. Meg also took it upon herself to share a great deal of far more intimate information on all the inhabitants of the castle than Castiel had ever wished to know. Bobby’s suspicions about the guard were proven partially correct; he had been on his way home not from the tavern, but from a tête-à-tête at a somewhat different établissement. Whenever the ladies in question felt under the weather, they had been very close and friendly with the drafts master, the gentleman in charge of the court’s wine cellar, the day before. And so it went on.

Castiel’s and Meg’s last stop coincided. Castiel’s wry astonishment at finding a similar bottle like the one he was delivering on the prince’s bedside table was easily contained. While Meg unceremoniously dumped the new bed linen in the chest where one of the prince’s personal maids would retrieve the sheets when needed, Castiel silently placed the new bottle next to the old one, which was indeed running on empty. True to her nature as evidenced so far, Meg kept asking what kind of medicine he was delivering, but even if Castiel was fairly convinced that the blue liquid was not _that_ kind of medicine, he surmised that Bobby was surely bound by some sort of patient confidentiality and, by extension, Castiel as his apprentice as well. Consequently, he simply told Meg the truth, namely that he honestly had no idea and, in his defence, that he had only really started that day. Meg seemed satisfied by that and had him promise her that he would join her again on her delivery tour someday soon.

Castiel sighed with relief once Meg had whirled off towards the castle kitchens to attack her next duty. Apparently, mid-morning snacks were in order for the council. How Meg knew that was anyone’s guess, but then again, Castiel didn’t know any of the routines at the castle.

If he had known of any routines, he might have avoided running into Prince Dean on his way down to the market. Like yesterday, the prince was clad like the other knights, fitted trousers, high riding boots, and a chainmail shirt over a tunic. The sturdy leather belt that held his sword was well-used and serviceable. Castiel bristled. How should he have known this swaggering, self-absorbed, arrogant- _right_ . Castiel pulled himself together. He was an adult. He could act like one. He could _ignore_ the prince. So he would. But, how for the ever loving great dragon should he have known this person who clearly had an excessively high opinion of himself was the prince? Although, that right there probably should have been his clue. Still, if the man expected people to recognise and treat him as the prince without providing formal identification or properly princely behaviour first, then he should at least _dress_ accordingly. Otherwise he was just baiting people into putting their foot in. Castiel scowled. That might actually be what the prince was doing. He probably enjoyed it, annoying people until they snapped, and then having them punished for it. Maybe even did the punishing himself. Spoiled, bratty prince.  

But he had given Bobby his promise, and he was going to keep it. Castiel swallowed down his anger and walked past the group of knights, pressed close to the market stalls, trying not to touch anybody.

“So, how’re your grand fighting skills coming along then?” he heard a voice quip behind him.

_Just keep walking, Castiel. Just keep walking._

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that.”

_Keep walking, Castiel. Keep walking and keep your mouth shut._

“Oh, don’t run away!”

_Just keep your mouth shut-_

“What, from you?”

 _Great_.

Castiel could have kicked himself. There was just no way he seemed to be able to keep his head.

“Oh, thank the Great Dragon, I was starting to think you were ignoring me on purpose,” the prince said, smug.

“Look, I’ve told you you’re an ass, I just didn’t realise you were a royal one.”

_I’m sorry, Bobby._

The prince laughed. It was a nice laugh. _No, it isn’t, it’s… it’s proud. And snotty._

“So, what are you going to do now, have your daddy’s men defend your honour?” Castiel kept going. He wasn’t quite sure why. He knew he shouldn’t.

The prince chuckled and Castiel felt every single chuckle in his stomach. Something must have been off with his breakfast. Obviously.

“I could take you apart with one blow,” the prince grinned.

The prince’s voice made Castiel feel like a cat stroked against the grain.

“Indeed? I bet I would need even less than that!” Castiel shot back heatedly. Only to quickly remember, once more, that he actually couldn’t. But he was prepared to just plow ahead and give it everything he got; as long as the prince went down and he got to wipe that stupid, stupid smirk off the prince’s face, he’d die a happy man.

“Oh, really?” The prince’s eyes were twinkling with laughter. _With malice, they are twinkling with malice!_ “Well, off you go then, repeat your performance from yesterday. Just to remind you, I really do have been trained to kill since birth.”

“And for how long have you been training to be a prat?” Castiel wished he could just cut out his own tongue. He knew he could be a mouthy wise-crack, but the point was, very few of those comments made it out of his mouth. Ever. Now Castiel was helplessly watching himself dig himself in more and more deeply. He wished somebody would stop him, because clearly, he himself couldn’t.

Surprisingly enough, the prince did not have his guards seize him. His knights were still waiting for his reaction though, unsure yet whether they could release the laughter they were clearly trying to keep in. The female knight from yesterday didn’t have that restraint. She snorted with laughter, her bright red hair flying in all directions as she valiantly tried to at least not topple over. The prince just shook his head, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” he finally said.

Castiel bowed.

“I apologise,” he said. And then glancing up from below: “For how long have you been training to be a prat… my lord?”

Laughter erupted all around them, and before Castiel could look twice, a fist was flying towards him.

_Whoops, again._

Stumbling back, Castiel tried to put some space between himself and the prince. It had finally occurred to him that trying to hit the prince in public, _again_ , might really be pushing it. Trying desperately to get out of the prince’s reach, Castiel looked around, and when he saw a rope lying across the way, it took only a thought for it to pull itself tight. As expected, the prince tripped, spectacularly, all flailing limbs and curses, to the amusement of their audience. Castiel was rather proud, until he saw Bobby, beet-red and fuming, amongst the bystanders. He shrugged apologetically, and that was all the distraction the prince needed to pull Castiel’s legs out beneath him. Going down like a sack of potatoes, pain shot through his head and down his spine, and then there was a second thump that he only seemed to hear from far away.

Before his eyes could clear again, the prince had him in a chokehold.

Castiel’s head swam. Hazily, he could see green eyes above him, glancing down triumphantly. The prince smelled of leather, polish, a bit of sweat, and something that Castiel couldn’t pinpoint, but it made him think of the long summer evenings at home and the woods surrounding the little cottage Hannah had made their home. Lemonade and pine. He smiled and his eyes slipped closed.

Hannah had always made a fresh, tangy lemonade for him when he had been cutting the firewood for the hearth, some for cooking, some in preparation for the long winters. There had been pine trees, and the ground had been covered in needles. When he had walked across them, carrying wood back and forth, they had given off a heady aroma. The sun was blinking through the leaves of the other trees around him.

“… Castiel!”

Castiel blinked.

“Castiel, come on boy, look at me!”

Castiel blinked again. Everything was much too bright and his head pulsed agonisingly. Slowly the forest with it’s sun-drenched leaves and comforting scents receded, making way for a dark, wild undergrowth that turned into Bobby’s beard a few seconds later.

What…?

“Ungh…” Castiel cast his eyes around. He was apparently lying half on the ground, half on the prince. Something was nagging in the back of his head, telling him that being snuggled up in the prince’s lap was not a good position for him to be in, but his head wouldn’t clear enough for him to know what. It would surely come to him later. Above him a discussion was going on which he could not quite get the hang of. He drifted off again.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“What the hell did you do?!” Bobby barked at the prince.

Dean shrugged awkwardly, not removing his hands from around Castiel so he wouldn’t completely slide down to the floor.

“Nothing! I pulled him down and he must have hit his head!”

“Are you sure you didn’t overdo it with that chokehold of yours?” Bobby griped.

Dean looked at Bobby, a flash of anger replacing the concern in his eyes for a short moment.

“I would never,” he bit out. “We were just fooling around! Hell, Bobby, he’s a stupid little peasant who has no idea how to behave and a vastly inflated perception of his fighting skills, but he’s essentially a baby in an ugly, long coat! I’d never seriously harm him!”

He had been getting louder and louder, but when Castiel groaned, Dean immediately cut down the volume. Shit, he didn’t want to cause the fool any more pain.

Bobby gave Dean a hard look.

“You sure?”

The question hit Dean hard. He swallowed. He knew that there’d been a time when Bobby’s question would have been more than appropriate. That Bobby felt the need to check that Dean hadn’t gone back to blindly following his father’s policy to hit first, hit hard, and only ask questions if the poor sod was still breathing by then. A shudder ran through him. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like his father. He wished he could say he had never hit blindly and without reason, or unreasonable force. He had not been kidding when he had said that he had been trained to kill from birth. But he was trying so hard not to react the way his father had drilled into him, especially since Sam had left. Dean’s heart ached at the loss of Sam. His eyes went blurry and he breathed in deeply, desperate to get himself back under control.

“He hit his head,” he whispered, but he wasn’t sure Bobby heard him. Or if he believed him.

“Master Singer, sir,” Charlie cut in, pointing at one of the wooden stools being sold at this stall, “the man really did hit his head when he fell down, first on the chair and then probably again on the ground before Dean restrained him, but as soon as Dean noticed that something was off, he released him.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” Dean was embarrassed by how hoarse his voice sounded. He turned back to the physician kneeling by Castiel’s side. “Bobby, I swear, I-”

Bobby waved him off.

“Yeah, yeah, boy, I know.”

Bobby sighed.

“We’ll have to take him up to my rooms; he needs to lie down for a bit. Idjit. I told him to stay out of your way.”

Charlie frowned.

“Your rooms? Not that that isn’t mighty nice of you, but shouldn’t we rather take him to the infirmary?”

“No, my rooms are fine, Castiel’s got his own room there as well.”

“Castiel, huh? Weird name,” Charlie said, eyeing Dean. “Wonder where he comes from and how long he’s going to stay.”

“Charlie, Dean, meet my new apprentice, Castiel.”

Bobby smiled when he saw Dean perk up his ears. Dean blushed. He blushed even more when he realised he was blushing. Gods, he hated it when he was blushing like that. Charlie sniggered, and Bobby looked as if he had found a deserted dragon’s hoard. It was a very discomforting look on the old physician.

Dean looked back down at the gorgeous man in his lap. Not gorgeous, annoying. Infuriating, stupid, and _annoying_ . Annoyingly gorgeous, though. _Stop it!_ Dean could feel the blush creeping up his neck until his ears were burning as well. He should not think of the man this way. Or in any way. He probably shouldn’t look at him either. The mob of unruly dark hair had been doing things to him from the first moment he had seen it, and the rest of the man wasn’t making things any better either. Dean forcefully tore away his mind from the man’s - Castiel’s - eyes because he simply refused to lower himself so far as to start trying to describe them. He just knew he would embarrass himself, even in front of only himself.

Yesterday on the road he had been over-excited to return to the castle after a successful hunt, the adrenaline of having vanquished a fairy pumping in his veins. When he had seen the guy awkwardly dancing around the puddle, Dean had felt too exuberant to slow down. Also, seeing him drenched had seemed like a really good idea at the time. Why Dean had thought that, he refused to delve into. But when only moments later his saddle had betrayed him, he had wanted the muddy ground to open up and swallow him whole. But, as if that wasn’t enough, later that day, _the same friggin’ day,_ he had almost fallen down again, _again_ with that man in his presence, on the training field, when he hadn’t heard the man coming up behind him. When Castiel had bumped into him, he had almost lost his balance. He had also almost lost his balance once he had got a good look at the guy. And Dean was not proud that he definitely lost his emotional balance in the shouting match that had followed. He was even less proud that he really enjoyed it, if he was honest. Not that he _was_ honest.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s get him up to his room then.” Dean congratulated himself on not saying bed. That would have only pushed his thoughts back into a gutter he definitely did not know intimately from yesterday night. “I’ll carry him.”

“I bet you would,” Bobby snorted, waving for some guards to come over. “But I don’t think so. You go back to your training. Let your guards to that. Can’t have the crown prince carry a servant bridal style to his bed now, can we? Imagine if your strength left you on the way.”

Dean hated himself for blushing as fiercely as he did, and the self-satisfied mischief running rampant in Bobby’s eyes told him that his old friend was mocking him, and very consciously so. So what if princes didn’t usually carry their servants.

“I wouldn’t drop him, Bobby, jeez,” Dean complained, annoyed, as the guards carefully picked Castiel up and manoeuvred him onto a stretcher one of the knights had brought over from the barracks. Dean got up himself, swaying stiffly after having a body lying in his la- on his legs for so long. Charlie was quick to steady him, and he patted his clothes to get rid of the dust and some straw.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know, and that’s not what I meant” Bobby smirked, and Dean steeled himself for whatever jibe would come next. “You didn’t have him whipped for yesterday’s episode-”

“I wouldn’t have had anybody whipped for that,” Dean seethed, “whipping is barbaric, and just because Dad’s a fan-”

“True, but you didn’t even leave him in the stocks for a day either, not even a half-day, in fact, not even for-”

“How do you know about that?!”

Bobby’s smile was serene.

“Oh, I have my sources.”

“Does the entire castle know I let him out early?!”

Bobby rolled his eyes.

“No, don’t worry, your good deeds are safe from public knowledge. Garth told me you had sent him to release Castiel when he came for his grandmother’s sleeping draught later that evening.”

“Oh, right,” Dean muttered. He didn’t know what else to say.

The guards were already walking towards the castle, taking Castiel with them. Bobby had walked along, and Dean had followed automatically; he couldn’t get himself to turn around. Once they had reached the gates, Bobby had apparently had enough from his humming and hawing, though, and finally sent him back, threatening to tell Ellen how and to where all the pies she was constantly missing disappeared.

“I am paying for them, Bobby!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am!”

“Then why don’t you go in through the front door and buy them like any other person?”

“Because Ellen says she’s an inn and not a bakery, and she doesn’t just sell pie!”

“Why don’t you speak a bit more loudly, Dean, I think Ellen over there hasn’t heard you yet.”

Dean almost pulled something, looking around quickly. When there wasn’t anybody he pulled a face he was sure even Sam would have been proud of. Bobby chuckled and wanted to walk up the stairs, but in a split-second decision, Dean’s arm shot out and stopped him. Dean stared at his arm for a moment.

“Bobby, you won’t… I mean, not that it matters, but… well…” Dean trailed off, a bit unsure of what he was actually asking.

Bobby rolled his eyes again.

“No, I won’t tell him you let him off the hook easy, satisfied now?”

“Yeah, um, thanks, Bobby,” he said sheepishly.

“Friggin’ idjits.”

Shaking his head, Bobby finally went up the stairs. Dean heard him ranting under his breath as he did so.

Once Bobby and the guards were out of sight, he allowed his shoulders to slump for a moment. He pressed his palms against his eyes for a moment, savouring the pressure and the darkness. His heart had skipped a beat in panic when Castiel had suddenly gone completely limp in his arms when they had been wrestling. At first Dean had thought it was a ploy to get him to release the other man, and he had pressed a little harder, but when there still had been no reaction a couple of seconds later and when he had seen Charlie’s horrorstruck expression, he had immediately released his hold. His hands had shot forward to check for a pulse, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling this relieved about finding the steady beat of somebody’s heart. Dean tried to understand why he was feeling this way about a complete stranger, someone he did not even like, an asshole, really - granted, Dean was probably not completely innocent when it came to Castiel’s reaction to him, but still, he was the crown prince of Camelot.

Except Castiel had not known that.

And given how the man had blanched when Dean had told him, Dean was rather sure that he had not been just pretending either. Dean grudgingly admitted to himself that he had kind of enjoyed himself. And seeing how he might be a little bit at fault as well, he had even had Castiel released after just a couple of hours. Fooling around like that undeniably had been an indulgence on his part, but Dean simply could not help making dirty jokes whenever he could, and Castiel… well. The man had really fired up Dean’s creativity. Dean coughed. Castiel gaping at his double-entendres had been hilarious to witness, even though the joke had backfired monumentally, because then Dean had been stuck with an assortment of mental pictures that had been very hard to ignore. Mentally, and physically.

Still, none of that really explained why he had panicked today at the mere idea of having hurt Castiel. Thinking about why he had panicked, Dean finally came to the conclusion that it had to have been because it would obviously look really bad if the future king of Camelot went and harmed unarmed, untrained subjects, even if they were being rather insubordinate.

Dean growled, annoyed with himself, Castiel, and generally the world at large, and went back to the other knights. Charlie was putting them through their paces, and when he came over, she gave him a saucy smirk. His expression must have been enough to shut her up before she even said anything, though, because her smirk morphed into a frown. For the time being, she turned back to supervising the knights, but Dean had no illusions that that had been the last of it. He hadn't even  lived down his involuntary mud bath yet. Charlie was milking it for all it was worth. He groaned. Damn blue-eyed idiot tripping him up wherever he went. There was just something about the man, something strange, or something unsettling in the way he looked at Dean, but in any case it was definitely something that got under Dean’s skin.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

<< HEY THERE! Cassie! Cassi-o! Come on, wakey-wakey! Yo, Cassie, we need to talk, sugarsticks! >>

Castiel bolted awake, shaking his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears, the vaguely discomforting impression of two very golden and not very human eyes flashing behind his lids.

Castiel’s head hurt. When he reached up, there was a prominent bump on the back of his head and a smaller, but much more pronounced one, a little off to the side. His eyes hurt as well; the light coming in through the small window, even with the curtains drawn, thin as they were, was still too bright. Briefly, Castiel was confused why he was lying in his bed, in his night clothes, when he had just been in the middle of the market. Trying to remember felt like dragging the memories up through thick, sticky sirup, and it hurt his head. Castiel quickly got fed up with it, and with a blink of bluish-white light his head finally cleared a little. Castiel groaned when he realised that he had ended up in a squabble with Dean, again, and worse, that he had lost again as well. Although, in the grand scheme of things, that was probably better since Castiel did quite like keeping his head where it was.

The thing that puzzled Castiel was what had woken him up. The voice was still echoing in his ears, flippant and way too voluminous for a human. And distinctly obnoxious. Castiel was sure that the voice had not been a product of his dreams. Somebody - or something - had called to him.

Castiel slowly sat up and waited for the room to stop spinning. It took a while. Finally, he got up and, very carefully, got dressed. When he left his room, he found Bobby sitting at the large table in the middle of the main room. Bobby’s expression upon seeing Castiel out and about detoured over 'surprise' to what Castiel had internally dubbed 'the grand stink-eye'.

“What the hell are you doing up, boy? You’ve got a concussion, you should be staying in bed!”

Castiel shrugged.

“I thought one wasn’t supposed to sleep immediately after sustaining a concussion anyway.”

Bobby was unimpressed.

“That’s not how this works.”

Castiel shrugged again.

“I took care of it.”

Castiel sat down at the table as well. When Bobby groaned and drew a long breath, likely to depart on a monumental rant, Castiel hastily continued.

“I just made sure nothing was seriously wrong, and I just dulled the pain a little! I didn’t do anything much against the bumps, just in case anybody checks on me!”

Bobby gave him a bowl of porridge and a hard, calculating look.

“Tell me, Castiel, did you really do that consciously?”

“I-“

Bobby raised his eyebrows and Castiel was brought up short. He frowned. Had it been a completely conscious decision?

“I think I did, but… I heal faster than other people; that’s the way it’s always been. I don’t know if that’s just… how I am, or if it’s magic stepping in automatically. I don’t know if I could prevent it. I knew that I probably shouldn’t completely heal everything so as not to arouse suspicion, but I don’t know if that was a choice that influenced the healing in the first place…” Castiel trailed off. “I have never really thought about it that much; magic has always been instinctual for me.”

Bobby sighed.

“Just be careful. If you can’t tell where conscious choice ends and instinct starts… makes everything a hell of a lot more dangerous.”

Castiel nodded briskly.

“Of course. You are saying I need to learn to control my magic better, but I feel fully in control of it. That is a dangerous situation, I understand.”

“That’s not how I meant that. I think it’s more that you and your magic are so completely in synch that it’s hard to separate.”

“I understand. There is something else I wanted to talk to you about, if you have the time?”

When Bobby motioned for him to continue, Castiel told him about the voice that had woken him up.

“Have you heard it? Do you know what it is?”

Bobby looked at Castiel for a long time.

“Boy, if you’re hearing voices, maybe you should-”

Castiel huffed in indignation.

“I am not hearing voices, Bobby, this is-” A slow grin was spreading over Bobby’s face. Realisation dawned on Castiel. He huffed again. “You’re making fun of me.”

Bobby’s lips twitched.

“Maybe a little,” he winked. Then he sobered. “I have not heard anything, and I have no idea what it could be, but I have seen enough in my life not to wave something like that away, especially coming from you. I’ll see if I can find something. Now, if you’re so ready to get up, you’re surely ready to go back to work, so there, grab those phials over there and off you go.”

On his way through the castle, Castiel noticed himself listening to every whisper in the air, trying to pick up anything that might shed a light on the mysterious voice in his sleep. After delivering all the different remedies - and what a relief that today there had been no phial of most likely nocturnal activities enhancing drugs for the prince - Castiel found himself strolling aimlessly through the castle, waiting for the voice, hoping he might be able to hone in on it. Should it come from somewhere in the castle, that was.

He didn’t find the origin of the voice or any hints, but he did come upon Charlie, crouched in front of what Castiel thought might be one of the pantries. His eyebrows went up when he realised that Charlie was tinkering with the lock, and barely ten seconds after Castiel had seen her, the door creaked open. Charlie quickly looked around to see whether anybody was looking and proceeded to push the door open, when she did a full double-take, her eyes widening comically when she saw Castiel, standing not ten yards away.

“Um…” she said, obviously casting around wildly for any sort of explanation. “Um, I am supposed to get something from in here?” she finally offered. Her face took on a pink tinge.

“Uh-huh,” Castiel deadpanned. This was interesting. Was Charlie stealing food from the pantry?

“No, I totally have every right to get in here,” Charlie continued, her blush deepening but essentially unapologetic.

“Then you won’t mind me telling Cook that I found you here?” Castiel said, doing his best to keep up a blank face.

“What?!” Charlie squeaked, before face-palming. “Great, that was basically me admitting guilt. Wonderful. Well played and all that.”

She stuck out her tongue at Castiel.

“Very mature,” Castiel answered, before starting to laugh. “But no need to worry, I won’t rat you out.”

Charlie gave him a look that made Castiel feel as if he were being roasted.

“You’re okay,” Charlie finally declared. Then she grinned. “But seriously, you’ve got some impressive stealth there, I didn't hear you coming up at all!”

Charlie’s glee at Castiel’s light-footedness had Castiel feeling rather uncomfortable.

“You should totally join me in robbing the pantry!” Charlie continued.

And there was the reason why Castiel had started feeling uncomfortable.

“Um,” he offered, in an unintended imitation of Charlie’s initial response. “That’s not really what I-”

“No, trust me, it’s totally worth it,” Charlie cut his protests short. She grabbed his hand and lead him towards the door.

The room was not too big, in fact, it seemed small for a castle, but Castiel knew that there were more storage rooms like the one in front of them. It was filled with rows and rows of shelves, holding anything from a rainbow of glasses filled with jam and marmalade and compote, to boxes that might hold cookies or spiced bread, to cartons and sacks filled with spices. It was pleasantly cool inside. There was also one shelf next to another door which was filled entirely with pies and confectionary.

“The cheese and the meat are in another room, in the cellars,” Charlie explained. Castiel figured that was probably due to the need for different storage conditions.

While Castiel was still contemplating the abundance of mostly dried and sweet food in front of them, Charlie had already gone off and was walking down the shelves, picking the odd piece here and there, and placing them carefully in her pouch. Judging by how heavy the pouch looked, Castiel felt that it was probably safe to say that this was not the first stop on Charlie’s shopping trip.

“Do the knights not receive sufficient food?” he finally asked, wondering why Charlie was here in the first place.

Charlie waved him off.

“Of course we do, De- I mean Prince Dean would never let the knights go hungry or anything. The food is pretty good in fact,” Charlie said while sinking an entire pie into her bag.

“Why do you need the food then?” Castiel asked, now genuinely confused.

Charlie blushed like it was going out of style. How intriguing. A slow grin spread over Castiel’s face.

“Stop looking at me like that, it’s creepy,” she piped and started fidgeting in earnest.

“I don't think I will, I’m rather enjoying this,” Castiel quipped. “Now, spill.”

Charlie sighed melodramatically. When she realised that there was no way out because while she could knock out Castiel and make it out of the room, there was nothing stopping Castiel from telling everybody that she had basically been caught stealing. Castiel was watching her closely, and he could tell the exact moment Charlie realised all of that.

“Itsforadate,” she finally said on a sigh.

“A date?” Castiel could feel his lips twitching. This was getting better and better. “With whom? The prince?”

The thought had slipped through his head and out of his mouth before Castiel could stop himself. Hearing himself say it out loud though, Castiel realised that he actually meant it much less teasingly than he would have expected he would. In fact, picturing Charlie and the prince on a date was, weirdly enough, not comfortable at all.

Charlie, in the meantime, was trying to keep from laughing. She quickly stuffed a loaf of sweet bread into her bag before ushering Castiel outside and locking up again. Then she dragged him down the corridor until they were in the hallway leading up to the quarters of some of the nobles living at the court.

“No, gods no, not a date with Dean,” Charlie sniggered, finally letting go.

“I fail to see what’s so funny about this,” Castiel replied, testily. He really couldn't see why his guess would amuse Charlie quite as much, and he was starting to feel a little piqued.

“Oh, trust me, it’s funny,” Charlie said, brimming with mirth. “On so many levels. You see, first of all, I’m only interested in the ladies. I mean, Dean digs both, you know, ladies and sirs,” Charlie winked suggestively, “but I seriously don't. Like, at all. Secondly, Dean, I mean Prince Dean - no, you know what, screw this - Dean is like the big brother I never had nor knew I wanted. So, yuk.”

Charlie had to be imagining going on a date with Dean, because first her face screwed up in deeply felt disgust and then she broke down in another fit of giggles.

“And is there a thirdly as well?” Castiel asked, amused. The information that she was, in fact, not romantically involved with the prince should not make him like her more. When Charlie registered his question, she got ready to answer, but the she stalled and looked away. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable, and the humour had gone up in smoke. Charlie looked distressed. Castiel frowned. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

Charlie seemed to be caught between different reactions, but finally she brightened again and smiled.

“Thanks,” she said simply. She shrugged. “It’s nothing, really, certainly nothing bad, but it's not really mine to tell either.”

“That’s alright, everybody has stuff like that.” Didn't he ever. “And don't worry, I’ll keep your… excursions a secret as well.”

“See, I knew you were okay,” Charlie beamed up at him. “Now, I don't think we’ve been formerly introduced; I’ve only ever seen you quarrelling with Dean. But hey, kudos for that! It’s good for him, far too few people dare to - as I said, I love him like a brother, but boy can he be annoying sometimes. Probably because he’s like a brother,” she mused. “Anyway, I’m Charlie! We’re gonna be good friends!” Charlie hit him on the arm excitedly, face nearly split in half with a Cheshire cat grin. Castiel was getting the distinct impression that he was not being given all that much of a choice in the matter. Still, he found he liked the outgoing redhead and, returning her smile, offered her his hand.

“Castiel.”

Charlie shook his hand with a tight grip and then excused herself, hinting at having to prepare a few things for the upcoming date that evening. Castiel watched her scurrying up the stairs. He smiled. He was making friends, and who would have thought that one of the prince’s personal guards would be one of them. But then, who would have thought that an asshole like the prince knew nice people like that.

Figuring that Bobby would already be waiting for him to come back and help him either with collecting new herbs or with measuring out the various ingredients for the medicines that had to be produced today, Castiel decided he would be back faster if he just crossed the courtyard. When he stepped outside, the king, Prince Dean, and a couple of knights were standing in a small group around a huge white horse. It was drizzling and the group was obviously trying to keep as close to the wall and the protection of the balcony and the balustrades above as possible. Castiel could see a couple of crows perching on a couple of the statues that lined the balustrades and on the roof above them. The crows didn't seem to mind the wet weather. Castiel was pretty sure he had seen Balthazar amongst the crowd. Well, as sure as one could be with a heap of grey and black crows anyway. Castiel slightly bowed in greeting.

Castiel had been considering going back inside and taken the long way around - anything was better than running into the prince again, Bobby surely would agree and forgive him coming back a little later still - when he heard the urgent cawing of Balthazar. Looking around, Castiel found him hopping along the roof, and when he caught Castiel’s eye, he made a pointing motion towards the prince. Castiel snorted. Yep, he had noticed the prince, thank you very much, and he was going to steer well clear of him. It took Castiel a moment to notice that Balthazar was not, indeed, pointing at the prince, but at the balcony. Confused, Castiel looked more closely.

When he saw what Balthazar meant, he drew back, panicking for a moment and checking whether his annoyance with the prince had caused him to do something stupid, the conversation with Bobby from this morning echoing in his ears. One of the statues, a woman with flowing hair and a gentle smile, Castiel had no idea who it might be depicting exactly, was… moving. Or rather not moving as such, but, as if somebody had cut a candle off with a sword, the cut off part was slowly sliding downwards. It was still standing upright, but it was just a question of time before it would topple over and crash down into the courtyard. Castiel felt his eyes darting downwards to where it would probably land, and his heart stuttered when he saw the prince standing right below it.

The world creaked to a near stop around Castiel. The raindrops now looked like snowflakes, slowly floating to the ground. Every sound was suddenly coming from far, far away, as if he was hearing everything through water, and the colours looked as if he were seeing them through the prism of a rainbow. He felt Balthazar’s and the other crow’s eyes on him. One of them cocked its head to the side. Castiel felt his magic rocking through him. His eyes never strayed from the prince, and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself running towards him. There was a gust of wind, and Castiel swore he felt as if it picked him up, urging him across the courtyard faster than Castiel could have ever run. The crows took off into the air as one. Castiel thought he could see something dark billowing behind him, huge dark feathers, born to ride the wind that felt like a part of himself. But Castiel’s eyes were still trained on the prince, and there was no place in his thoughts for any stray feathers tumbling down from a courtyard filled with crows, and the thought flowed through his head without getting stuck.

Castiel felt, more than saw, the statue break free, and with a desperate shout he barrelled into the prince, knocking him over so hard the momentum carried them a couple of feet under the balcony.

The world came crashing back as the statue crashed down and shattered, showering Castiel in sharp, stony shards. Screams rose around them. Castiel looked around, dazed. He had a weird feeling on his back and furtively craned his neck to check that there wasn't anything weird there. There wasn't. He sent a prayer to whatever deity would listen that it had been a cool day and that he had put on his coat. The coarse but strong material was roughed up in a couple of places, but nowhere actually torn, which meant that while he would be black and blue in a few places, his skin could not be seriously torn either.

“What the hell?!”

Oh. Castiel was half lying, half sitting on the prince.

“Will you get off me, you fucking moron!”

The prince appeared to be rather displeased. Still not quite sure what had happened, Castiel let himself fall to the side and off the prince. Dean immediately shot to his feet, patting down his clothes and shouting at Castiel.

“What are you trying to do, kill me? What the hell do you think you’re doing? Friggin’ dragon on a cracker, you’re a public menace, aren't you?!”

“Dean! Are you okay?!”

The king was rushing over, looking over his son. Dean seemed fine, but the king was bleeding from a small cut on his chin.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, but this moron here-”

The king turned to Castiel, who was scrambling to get up from the floor. He groaned. Yep, his back would hurt. He wondered if Bobby would allow him to do anything about it. Those thoughts immediately went out of the window when King John took his hands. Castiel froze. Had he been too obvious? Was that it? Had he managed to get himself executed after half a week at Camelot? He hadn't even really done anything, he had just moved really fast, and they had all been distracted, nobody should have seen anything, really, and oh no, Bobby was going to kill him, and the king was going to kill Bobby, and it was all his fault, well his and the stupid prince’s, and-

“Thank you,” the king said. Castiel mentally ran into a brick wall. What?

“What?” Dean sounded in equal parts flabbergasted and pissed. “What?! Why the hell are you thanking him?!”

The king turned a stern gaze at Dean and pointed to the floor behind him.

“Because he shoved you out of the way just in time. And by the looks of it took quite a beating in the process,” the king said calmly.

Dean drew a breath to continue his tirade, but when he looked where the king was pointing, he sputtered to a stop and blanched. It had been a big statue, and pieces of it were covering everything in a ten foot radius. The knights were picking debris off their capes. Their chainmail had kept them relatively safe. With a sigh of relief Castiel noticed that the horse seemed to be alright as well. Startled and skittish, but no open wounds.

Dean’s eyes were still darting back and forth between the remains of the statue and the now empty place on the balustrade. He was opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, like a stranded fish. If Castiel had not been so unsure of his status of possible main guest at the next execution, he would have found it rather funny.

The king shook his head.

“Dean, you're the future king, one would think you’d be more aware of your surroundings.”

Dean clearly wanted to say something but, in the end, must have thought better of it. He deflated like a pricked wineskin.

The king turned back to Castiel.

“This quickness of mind, this loyalty, it needs to be rewarded.”

“Oh, no need, your highness-”

“No, it has to be rewarded. The statue could have hit my heir instead; this loyalty deserves a high reward.”

“No, I mean-”

“I think a position in the royal household,” King John mused, never looking away from Castiel. “Yes, I think that should do nicely. That way you’ll be able to continue your assistance to my clot of a son. You shall be his new manservant.”

_What?!_

“What? Father! You can't seriously-”

“I can’t? I am your father and I am your king, and this boy is going to be your manservant. And you, you will be grateful. _Is that understood_?” the king’s words bristled with ice-cold anger. There was no room left for even the idea of disobedience. The prince’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“Yes, sire.”

The king nodded, satisfied, and strode off.

The horse had been brought into a stable and a couple of servants were already cleaning up the mess in the courtyard. The knights had accomplished the truly impressive feat of vanishing from under both the prince’s and the king’s nose and were nowhere to be seen. The prince rounded on Castiel, green eyes blazing with anger and what looked suspiciously like hatred.

“Bring my dinner to my chambers,” he barked and took off towards the stables.

Wonderful. Bobby would be so proud of him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  


	6. Chapter 6

Bobby was, indeed, not amused. He went through an impressive array of colours at a dizzying speed, and had Bobby not been the court physician, Castiel would have felt inclined to call him. As it was, Bobby finally turned around without a word, grabbed his sickle and went to tend to his plants.

Great. The prince was angry at him, and now Bobby was cross with him too. What should he have done? Let the statue squash the prince? Castiel stopped. Actually, maybe he should have, he thought, his own anger boiling up at the injustice of it all. He would have been able to spend his days in Camelot in peace. But now, now he would have to spend them in constant proximity to the most irritating person he had ever met in his entire life. A very good-looking person, but an irritating person nonetheless. Stomping out of Bobby’s quarters, Castiel realised that even _that_ fact about the prince was irritating. The prince was irritatingly good-looking. Castiel groaned. He could remember a similar thought from not too long ago, and that hadn’t ended well. How would he ever manage to be in the company of the prince - _work for him_ \- for any prolonged amount of time, without getting himself killed? And that wasn’t even adding magic to the equation, no, Castiel was only considering how likely he was to simply rip out the prince’s throat. Killing the crown prince would definitely be sufficient cause to be executed. Castiel had never thought of himself as a violent person, but he wondered how much of the prince he could take before things would escalate. Castiel stopped in his tracks and felt an insane urge to hit his head against the wall, repeatedly. Why did everything he was thinking about the prince sound like a bad double-entendre? Or maybe it didn’t, and he was just starting to hear things because… because… because he was stressed.

Castiel resolutely continued his descent down the stairs. He would have to get his mind off of things, at least for now. Continuing his search for the source of the strange voice seemed an appropriate distraction. Hopefully that would give Bobby the time he needed to cool down again as well. When it came down to it, Castiel _had_ saved the prince’s life; Bobby undoubtedly wouldn’t have wanted for Castiel to stand by and do nothing. As much as Castiel would like to be able to say differently, and no matter that he might be griping about it after the fact, he knew deep inside that he would not have been able to watch and do nothing. At least, the same would be true had it been anybody else but the prince, and that made everything a smidgen more bearable. Because that meant that the prince had not got under his skin like Bobby had joked earlier.

Forcefully wrenching away his thoughts from anything connected to the prince, Castiel made himself focus on where he should start looking for the voice. The cellars beneath the wing where Bobby’s quarters were located seemed to be a good idea, start close and then fan out. No sooner had he made that decision, when-

<< _Cassie, come on, hurry up! This is kinda urgent, and I haven’t got all day!_ >>

Castiel walked head-first into a door. The other people around him, a couple of maids and a guard, stared. None of them seemed to have heard anything.

<< _Oh, and on your way down, would you pick up a couple of cakes from the kitchen. The tiny yellow ones with the pink frosting._ >>

Castiel growled. He did not know who that was, but he already disliked them. Next, a couple of images of stairs tumbled into his head and nearly made him topple over. The guard looked very conflicted whether she should come forward and offer help or rather call for help to take care of the wacky guy swaying back and forth with an empty look on his face. She inched closer, resignation and annoyance on her face.

“Are you alright?”

Castiel clearly wasn’t.

<< _Yo, Cassie-o, come on. I haven’t had anything sweet in, like, decades!_ >>

Castiel shook his head, trying to get rid of the booming voice inside it.

“Will you please stop shouting!” he shouted. While in a relatively quiet corridor.

The guard drew back, openly annoyed now.

“I wasn’t shouting! What’s wrong with you anyway?”

One hand still trying to comfort the ringing in his head, Castiel tried to placate the irate guard with the other.

“Sorry, sorry, not you, just…” _Great Castiel, what are you going to tell her now? It’s just the voice in my head that you can’t hear telling me to steal cakes?_ “It’s just… I’ve got a really bad headache. Makes everything swim. I should probably go and lay down.”

The guard still looked suspicious, but she seemed to accept his excuse.

“Well, get to it then, you don’t look so hot.”

“Thanks,” Castiel grimaced a smile.

“Need help?” the guard asked, decidedly unenthusiastic.

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

Castiel finally made it through the door. Down another corridor he found a staircase, leading further down to the cellars. Castiel took one of the lanterns lined up next to the wall before continuing. He hadn’t brought a tinderbox, but since there wasn’t anybody around… His eyes flashed and the wick of the oil lamp inside the lantern caught fire.

There was a hallway with numerous doors leading off to different storage areas, but as Castiel continued down towards the far back, he found a small, winding staircase going down. The further down it went, the older the walls appeared. Those had to be the foundations of the old castle, before King John had rebuilt so much of it. The stairs lead to another hallway like the one above, but Castiel was sure that, by now, he was well underground. The sounds of the castle had long died away, and he was enveloped in thick silence.

There were no doors in the hallway below, just arching passageways with grilles. Heavy locks hung from even heavier chains, preventing anybody who might have come here from going any further. From what little Castiel could see in the steady light of the lantern, the floor was covered in a thin layer of grey but nothing else. It looked as if not even any dirt had found its way down here. A few long deserted cobwebs hung motionless in the corners. It all felt eerily calm.

Castiel felt drawn towards one of the arches on the left. The metal grille was twice as thick as the others, and it was secured by numerous heavy locks and massive chains. Not suspicious at all. Maybe this was the point where Castiel should turn around and leave. Clearly, somebody had felt that, wherever this passage lead, it was better not easily accessible. On the other hand…

Castiel sighed. No matter how long he stood here deliberating, he knew that, in the end, he would go down. Even if it was only to make sure the annoying voice stopped harassing him. He considered the door in front of him. If he undid all the chains, would he be able to lock everything up again afterwards? He thought so. Castiel concentrated on the locks until he could see them in his mind. He imagined them open. There were five very loud, satisfying clicks, followed by the rattling of chains falling down. The door was heavy. It took pushing with all his weight and a frustrated burst of magic for it to screech open. Finally, it stood ajar enough for Castiel to squeeze through. He followed the sandy corridor. With a groan he discovered another staircase, this one so far beneath the castle that it had been roughly hewn into solid rock. The further down he went, the smaller the staircase became, until there was a sharp twist. The walls flared out to either side, making way for an open space. A few steps away from the end of the stairs, the ground broke off and got swallowed in the darkness beneath. Castiel felt a few strands of his hair, unruly as always, brushing against his forehead. There had to be a current; that would explain the relative freshness of the air despite how far underground he had to be by now. He could hear the soft gurgling of water, but apart from that, there wasn’t any sound. The light of Castiel’s lantern was not reflected anywhere, and for a moment, Castiel felt as if he and his lantern were floating in the empty night sky with no other stars to be found.

Castiel was considering magically increasing the flame to see how big the place was, when suddenly the entire room lit up in a soft glow that grew steadily brighter. No wonder his little lantern had not been of much use. Castiel realised that he was standing on a small precipice that was about half-way up the wall of a gigantic cavern. In the sourceless light he could see water shimmering between some of the rocks below, and there seemed to be a larger body of water off towards the far end of the cavern. How he had never heard about this cave beneath Camelot he had no idea, but surely the king had to know-

“Cassie, my lad! Laddie! Honey bunny! Took you long enough, ey? Well, come on, come on down!”

The voice boomed loudly in the cavern, echoing back and forth until it sounded like a dissonant choir. Castiel ducked back into the opening of the stairs.

“Cassie! I’m waiting!”

The rumbling voice was starting to take on a definitely whining undertone.

“By my own freakin’ scales… Cassie-o! Get your comely, pale ass down here, now!”

Castiel shook his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to make whoever’s acquaintance.

“Pretty please? It’s not like I can come up, you know.”

“I don’t even know how to get down there!” Castiel bit his lip. He really had to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Stairs, Cassie, stairs! Off to your left.”

 _Drat_.

Castiel sighed. Since he was here already, he might as well try and find out what he could; that was, after all, why he had started looking for the mystery voice. And the mystery had not yet become any clearer. Calling the irregular blocks of stone on his left stairs was euphemistically optimistic. There was no balustrade or anything else to hold on to. Muttering choice descriptions of his life under his breath, Castiel started climbing down. He wondered how he would ever get back up.

What he saw when he finally dared to turn away from the rocks was... anticlimactic. A not very tall man, with longish brown hair and wrapped in torn pieces of fabric, was standing in the middle of a round platform. His grin upon seeing Castiel was euphoric and a little disconcerting. The most remarkable thing about him, Castiel thought, was the golden gleam of his eyes. That was until the man waved at him and Castiel could see the silvery bands surrounding his wrists. The numerous chains connecting the handcuffs to the rocks and the floor of the platform jingled with the movement. Castiel stared. The man noticed the direction of his gaze and smiled sheepishly.

“Long story. Got you boyfriend’s father to thank for that. But I assure you, none of it was my fault.”

The man directed what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile at Castiel. It did not feel reassuring. Also, the entire statement made little sense.

“I do not have a boy-“ Castiel tried to explain, but he was cut off by the most impressive eye-roll he had ever seen.

“I knoooow. I mean the dashing Crown Prince of Camelot. You know, the one who’s ass you’ve been making googly eyes at whenever he isn’t looking. That one.”

Castiel could feel his hackles rise. Whoever the person in front of him was, Castiel was fairly certain that he definitely did not like them.

“Dean is most definitely not my boyf-“

Again he was cut off.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever let’s you sleep at night.” The man winked at him. “Or not.” Before Castiel could say anything, he continued. “Aaaanyway, not the point. At least, not right now. I need you to keep the lovely prince safe, like you did today. Well done, by the way. Very selfless and heroic, risking exposure like that, but also rather dumb. Try to be more stealthy from now on; King John really doesn’t fuck around when it comes to lighting up sorcerers and the like. Also, I see you didn’t bring me any cakes. How heartless of you.”

“I won’t steal any cakes for you! And today was an accident, I did not mean to save the prince! For all I care the prince can be squashed by any number of statues, in fact, I’ll shove them off the balustrade myself-”

“Ah ah ah - not quite, though, Cassie, _amiright_?” The man’s smile was disgustingly saccharine. “If the prince is in danger, you’ll always save him.”

“I will not,” Castiel blustered. “I-”

“Yes, you will, and this is getting boring.” The man waved him off. “You’re 'meant to be', the alpha and the omega, two sides of the same coin, sharing a profound bond and all that, bladibaldibla.”

Castiel drew a deep breath, gearing up to refute anything and everything the man said, but again, he was stopped.

“Tell me you could have stopped yourself today,” the man deadpanned. He was infuriating.

“I would have done that for everyone,” Castiel’s change of tactics was answered with another eye-roll.

“I don’t doubt it, sugarsticks. Still, Cassie, point stands, you and Prince Green-Eyes share a disgustingly profound bond, and trust me when I say that destiny’s a bitch and not all that easy to escape.”

“What the hell are you talking about? And who are you anyway?!” Castiel could feel himself reaching the end of his patience, fast.

The man drew himself up to his full height. Which would have been far more impressive had that not been a head shorter than Castiel.

“I,” he intoned proudly, “am Gabriel, the Great Dragon. At your service, young warlock. Well, not really, but you get my drift.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shot up. _A dragon?_ The man claimed to be a dragon? He’d probably gone a bit off his cracker; who knew for how long he’d been chained up down here. When there was no answer from Castiel, Gabriel rolled his eyes again. That seemed to be his favourite reaction to everything.

“Yeah, yeah, I get I’m not looking like one right now.” He shook his shackles as if that explained everything.

“I don’t see what-“

“Hello-o, magic,” Gabriel said, the 'duh' obvious in his voice. “Not that easy, dragging a dragon down into your castle’s secret cellar, don’t you think? Much easier this way.” He licked his lips and offered his wrists to Castiel. “If you take them off, I’ll show you what I normally look like,” he proposed cheerily.

“Thanks, I think I’ll pass,” Castiel responded dryly.

Gabriel shrugged.

“Worth a try.”

Castiel eyed the shackles. Were they just keeping the… _dragon_ … in his human form, or did they do more than that? Did the dragon have magic? Did dragons in general have magic? They were magical beasts after all, born from magic, Castiel supposed, so… Suddenly he remembered the courtyard. Something had been bothering him about it and he hadn’t been able to figure out what, but now an image of part of the statue sliding clean off flashed before his eyes. Castiel had not gone up to check, but he was sure that if he did, the entire stone would be eerily smooth. So smooth that the break - the cut? - could not have happened accidentally. Something was off about it, and now that Castiel was turning it over in his mind, he realised that the feeling of unrest he had experienced ever since was most likely connected to this. Not just to the voice, but also to the mysterious fall of the statue. Were the two connected? If the dragon had magic, had he…?

“Did you try to kill the prince this morning?” he blurted.

Gabriel stared at him, eyes bugging out.

“You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?” he finally huffed, obviously cursing fate for sending him a complete idiot. “Did you not just hear me congratulate you for saving his perky royal ass?”

Castiel shrugged.

“Lies, intrigues, manipulations, whatever. You’re claiming to be a _dragon_. If you’re not, then you’re lying already, and if you are, well, the moral of every story I’ve ever heard about dragons is to never trust them.”

“How good of you to have payed attention to some ass-old story, but to spell it out for you: no, it was not me, one, because it’s in my best interest for the prince to stay alive, even as obnoxious as he is, and two, these expensive but unwanted pieces of ridiculously clunky jewellery do not block _all_ I can do, but they block enough for me to a) be unable to leave, b) change into my usual lovely self, and c) magically fathom the prince’s location under a statue and make said statue topple onto his thick head.”

The man’s golden eyes shimmered. From up close those eyes were… uncanny. They looked just human enough to make Castiel shiver. They were the eyes from his dream.

“You don’t sound as if you like him much.”

“Well, like I said, I’ve got your boyfriend’s daddy to thank for these,” he rattled the chains again, “but I don’t need to like blondie as long as he does what he’s supposed to do.”

“And what would that be…?”

Castiel was getting fed up with the conversation, and not only because he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the self-proclaimed dragon. The two of them stared at each other. For a moment there was only the distant tinkling of water. Finally, Gabriel heaved a sigh.

“Okay, listen. I know this is all not really what you expected, and I get you’re probably not all that happy about it, but the fact of the matter is you need to take care of Prince Dean. He’s supposed to be the Righteous King, and you’re supposed to be his faithful companion, and magic’s supposed to make its grand return under his reign. So we can’t have anybody killing him off, _capisce_?”

Castiel snorted. _Sure_ . Prince Dean the Righteous King. _The Righteous King_ , of all things, the stuff of legends. It was Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes. He had heard stories when he was growing up, prophesies foretelling the time of the Righteous King, a time when the land would once more be united and prosper, and when magic would flow freely. Stories that were, Castiel assumed, likely forbidden in Camelot. The Righteous King was, literally, what fairy-tales were made of, always chivalrous and humble, true of heart, loyal and just. And definitely _not_ Prince Dean.  Prince Dean was an arrogant asshole, prone to deception, self-centred and vindictive, and the reason Castiel’s head still hurt.

“Let’s assume I believe you truly are a dragon; Dean being the Righteous King is pushing it. He’s a prat. A complete and utter prat. If anything, he’s going to be the Self-Righteous King,” Castiel said with deeply felt exasperation.

Gabriel chuckled.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s your job to change that, sugarsticks.”

Castiel balked at that.

“No, thanks. Thanks, but no thanks. I need to get back to my duties.”

And with that, Castiel turned around and climbed up the stone stairs as fast as he could. Gabriel was ranting on about prophesies, duties, and inevitability.

“Fine! Don’t believe me! You’ll figure it out soon enough!” the dragon shouted just as Castiel was about to disappear around the corner of the stairs leading up to the locked gate. “But next time you come down here, mind bringing some bonbons? And maybe some sugarsticks, or a couple of lollipops? Muffins would also be totally fine, and a cake would be awesome! Do they still have those soft thingies which are really sour? Hey! Cassie! Don’t forget the bonbons! Cassie!”

It took until Castiel was half-way up the stairs before he was enveloped in blessed silence once again. Castiel could understand why the king had imprisoned the dragon; what he couldn’t understand was why nobody had felt compelled to gag him.

Securing the chains went without a glitch, and soon Castiel reached the courtyard again. The sun was already low over the horizon, but outside it was still much brighter than it had been underground, and Castiel felt like a mole exiting a molehill, blinking against the light. Going by the sun, it was already evening, and Castiel was surprised by how much time he must have spent underground. On the other hand, listening to the self-proclaimed dragon had felt like an eternity. In any case, Castiel remembered, with no little displeasure, that he was no longer a free man in the sense that he had been shackled to the prince as his manservant, and that his royal prettine-PRATTIness! was probably pitching a fit already regarding his by now most likely delayed dinner. Good, maybe being late with dinner was sufficient cause for being fired. Castiel certainly hoped so. Having only just been told that it was apparently his destiny to keep the prince not only alive but help him become the greatest king who ever lived, had not helped Castiel’s temper any. Well, he only had himself to blame, hadn’t he? If he had simply let that statue drop onto the prince, he would not have risked exposure, and he would not be forced to serve the ass dinner on top of it.

Gritting his teeth and stomping through the corridors, Castiel’s mood was sufficiently signalled to all around him, and the other servants wisely stepped out of his way and left him alone. The news of his newly acquired station as the crown prince’s manservant had most likely already made the rounds, as had the fact that neither one of the two parties concerned was at all happy with it.

Counting on the storm cloud of his face to continue to clear the way for him and deeply in contemplation of his life’s choices, Castiel was not paying much attention to where he was going as long as it was in the general direction of the kitchens, albeit with a few not entirely necessary long cuts, and consequently failed to react in time when he charged around a corner and was faced with a brightly-coloured, chest-high bundle in front of him. There were multiple screams of surprise and indignation and a tangle of limbs when Castiel crashed into whatever was obstructing his path. The bundle collapsed onto the floor, dragging Castiel down with it, and once Castiel had caught his bearings, the 'bundle' quickly became identifiable as Charlie and a female companion whose red hair even outshone Charlie’s.

“Whit in the gods’ names ar ye doein'?” the other woman demanded. “Don’t ye have any eyes in yer head, ye feckin' galoot?!”

“Pardon?” Castiel was not quite sure what he had just heard, only that it had been meant as an insult, going by the tone of voice. Charlie dissolved in giggles.

“Now Ah tell ye whit, ye glaikit nyaff-!”

“Rowena,” Charlie finally managed to get out in between hiccups of laughter, “this is Castiel, Dean’s new manservant. Castiel, this is Lady Rowena. She is one of the gentle women here at court.”

Rowena stopped, but the predatory look she was giving Castiel now was, in his opinion, not all that much better from the furious one before.

“Is he now, th’ wee cutie” she drawled. Her expression turned gleeful. “From what Ah hear he isnae too happy about 'at, an' neither is th' bonny prince - och this is gonnae be stoatin fun!”

Castiel looked helplessly at Charlie. Charlie snorted.

“Rowena, sun of my life, be a sweetheart, Castiel does not seem to understand you, can you tone it down a little? I know, I know, honey, come on, be a dear. I’ll make it worth your while,” Charlie crooned.

Castiel’s eyes wandered from one redhead to the other, and suddenly he saw daylight.

“Rowena is your date!” he blurted.

“Sheesh, can you scream a little louder, I don’t think they’ve heard you in the stables,” Charlie shushed. “We’re keeping this lowkey, alright?”

“Of course,” Castiel grinned. “Are you afraid of your precious prince ribbing you for dating one of the noble women?”

After her initial outburst, Rowena had been staring at Castiel with an odd look on her face that Castiel had not been able to interpret, and now Charlie and Rowena shared a look that was equally unreadable.

“Um,” Charlie stalled, apparently having half a conversation with Rowena in silently traded looks. “Yeah, that’s not quite it, but… um… we just don’t want to draw any attention, we want to see if this works out, first, you know, I mean, even though we’ve been together for… well, _anyway_ , where were you running to, blindly, I might add, while spewing dark clouds and smelling of royally pissed-off-ness?”

Castiel might not always catch every single clue, but even he could see an evasion when it was painted bright red and shoved into his face. Also, it did work, because Castiel was forcefully reminded of his latest episode of woe-is-me and his grin quickly morphed into a grimace.

“That bad, ay?” Rowena cackled, and Charlie’s eyes brimmed with mirth, even though she managed to keep it together this time. Mostly.

“I’m supposed to get the royal ass’s dinner.”

“It's a very nice arse, though.”

“Ew, Rowena!” And there went Charlie’s keeping-it-together-this-time.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, you two,” Castiel huffed. “If you don’t want me to know, just do your staring thing again.”

“Dude, like you’re one to talk about staring matches,” Charlie quipped. “I mean seriously.” Castiel gave her a condemning look of utter non-understanding. “Seriously? You and Dean? Come on, you’ve got to kidding me. The entire market was retching by the time you two were finished; that was bordering on indecent exposure. No, ah-ah-ah don’t even try it! We all had to see it with our own two, much abused eyes!”

Castiel felt himself getting very red-faced, and he liked to think that this was because of indignation and righteous anger and nothing else.

“And while I only and exclusively like the ladies, I do have eyes, and he does have a very nice butt indeed,” Charlie added, smirking.

“Charlie!” Castiel would swear to his dying day that his exclamation had sounded like an exploding balloon, and not like the squeak of one being deflated. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, while I indeed would not mind getting fired, I do mind being put in the stocks again, so I will now go and fetch that dinner!”

“Don’t spit in it,” Charlie advised, with an innocent smile. “I’m sure if you’d like to exchange cooties with Dean you two will be able to find a better way.”

Castiel marched off to the raucous laughter of the two women.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dean was looking at the coloured candle on his armoire and he was _not_ amused. His dinner should have been served half a candlemark ago. The sun outside his window told him the same thing: his new and very much unwanted manservant _was late_. Dean wished he could simply send the man off, but he doubted his father would let him. He doubted that wanting to quit would do the man any good should he want to get away, and he hadn’t seemed overly enthusiastic in the first place. The man would probably have to run away screaming or turn out to be completely useless for his father to change his mind. A grin spread over Dean’s face. That was something he could probably achieve - whether making Castiel run away or making him look like an utter idiot, Dean figured both should be doable. He would simply have to make up a list of chores that was not doable if his manservant had any plans on getting any sleep whatsoever.

Dean was just about finished with his list, when there were three very precise knocks at the door. Dean didn’t bother getting up.

“Enter!”

There was some shuffling and, to Dean’s great pleasure, what he thought might have been a curse, before the door swung inwards and a tray of food appeared, closely followed by Castiel. His manservant set the tray down before going back and closing the door.

“You’re late,” Dean grunted without looking up from the scroll where he was pretending to check the list he had made. Half of the tasks on the list were not even tasks for manservants, like mucking out the stable of his horse or changing the sheets on his bed, but Dean had put them there anywhere.

“You did not specify a time when dinner should be here,” his servant answered while setting out a plate and cutlery on the table in front of Dean.

Dean was flabbergasted. The sheer gall…!

“I assumed everybody would know that dinner is something that is served at dinnertime. Which was about half an hour ago,” he shot back, congratulating himself.

Two very blue eyes zeroed in on his, and they were not impressed.

“Then you would have needed to let the cook know you wanted your dinner ready earlier, so that I could have brought it up in time for it to be here by dinnertime.”

“That would have been your job!”

“Obviously, I do not know yet what my job entails apart from providing dinner at a time that is mysteriously both specific and vague.”

Momentarily lost, Dean did not know what to answer, and going by the amused glint in Castiel’s eyes, his servant knew it.

“ _You’re_ vague.”

Castiel’s eyes shot up, but he remained silent, letting Dean stew in an unvoiced “that doesn’t even make any sense.” Was he _trying_ to get himself thrown out? With a start, Dean realised that that was probably exactly what Castiel was doing. He had considered that Castiel might do that, only half an hour ago, but seeing that Castiel was actually prepared to lose a rather well-paid job as well as earning horrible references just to get away from Dean, made Dean surprisingly… unhappy. Considering their interactions so far, it certainly wasn’t surprising. Anyway, the sooner he got rid of the impertinent servant, the better, and if Castiel wanted to get away anyway, then all the better. Right? Right.

“Well, we’ll have to avoid vagueness then.”

“Of course, sire. You’ll have to avoid vagueness.”

Dean could feel his jaw tick. He attacked the meat in front of him with much more force than necessary, seeing as the chicken was already dead and roasted.

“These are your chores. Make sure you do them diligently and on time. Laxness will not be tolerated, and neither will tardiness.”

“Of course.”

Castiel took the list and Dean observed with not inconsiderate pleasure how Castiel’s eyes grew wide. The light of the candles got caught in them and their reflections looked like stars on a deep blue - Dean choked on a sip of his wine and had a coughing fit. _What the… Where had that come from?!_ Some of the wine went up his nose and his eyes started watering. He felt the red wine trickle down inside and quickly grabbed the linen serviette to blow his nose. Castiel gave him a weary look as if he expected Dean to suddenly sprout horns and wings and take off through the window. Dean frantically tried to come up with something to say.

“You were late.”

_Great, Winchester._

“Yes, I think we have established that.”

Castiel’s eyebrows seemed to agree with Dean’s self-assessment.

“Yeah, but I want to know _why_.”

Maybe that counted as a save. Castiel grinned, for all Dean could see not necessarily voluntarily, and Dean was mesmerised - no he definitely was _not_ mesmerised by his… really ugly… _Yeah, we’ll just leave that for the moment, Winchester, won’t we._

“I ran into Charlie,” Castiel said. His really very annoying smile widened. “She was sneaking into Lady Rowena’s chambers.”

Dean found himself laughing, despite himself.

“Was she now?” he sniggered. “I knew it. She’s been acting all shifty for months now; I knew something was going on.”

He was happy that Charlie had finally found someone after moping around for so long after Gilda. She had been so happy with Gilda, but something happened, Dean didn’t know what, and Gilda had left Charlie. Charlie had only said that Gilda had not felt comfortable in Camelot anymore and had wanted to move, but Charlie had wanted to stay, and it had all gone downhill from there. So, he was happy that Charlie had found somebody new, finally, but he did feel somewhat resentful that Charlie had not confided in him. At all. But then, while he had to be as diplomatic as possible with everyone, he definitely wasn’t with Charlie, and he remembered more than one instance when he had, in fact, been rather vocal in his dislike of Lady Rowena. The Scotswoman creeped him out.

“… good night.”

“What?”

Apparently Dean had drifted off a little. Castiel seemed disappointed. He heaved a tremendous sigh.

“Your eloquence is truly astounding. Since you have decided to take a minor vacation with the fairies, I shall take the liberty to presume that you will not require anything else this lovely evening,” Castiel repeated and seemed ready to duck out of the door.

“A bath!” Dean shouted. “A bath! I want a bath, draw me a bath. You’ll have to get hot water. For my bath. Because that’s what I want. A hot bath. In… water.”

_By the freakin’ great dragon, shut up Winchester._

“Yes, that has become sufficiently clear,” Castiel answered, dry as chalk. And he dared to roll his eyes at _him_ , the _prince_. Before Dean could say anything, Castiel disappeared out of the door. Only to stick his head back in for a moment before shutting it completely. “A bath. With hot water. How very good of you to specify that.”

“Cast _iel_!”

While Castiel was on his way to fetch the water, Dean had time to let his thoughts wander and to indulge all the reasons why the mere presence of his manservant was enough to set him on edge. Hopefully, the dolt realised that he should ask some other servants to help, because otherwise Dean would have to wait forever, and the first bucket would have cooled by the time Castiel had trudged up the next one. In a fit of pettiness, Dean forced himself to drop his clothes onto the floor. Seeing the garments discarded all over his room made him wince internally; usually he’d put the clothes he wished to have washed into the wicker basket in the corner next to his armoire. He looked around. His rooms were… tidy. Neat. Not immaculate, but close enough. Everything nicely organised and in its place. It would suck, but if it got a rise out of his manservant, he’d suffer willingly.

With great consideration, Dean picked two of his pillows, small ones that he did not usually sleep on, and let them drop onto the floor next to his bed. Then he threw himself onto his bed and made snow angels in the blankets and furs. Sheets sufficiently ruffled, he proceeded to plough through his closet to choose a new nightshirt, throwing everything he did not need haphazardly behind him. When he turned around, tunics, shirts, and a few other nightshirts had landed in equal parts on the floor, his bed, and the chest that held his winter clothes. It looked… messy. Dean cringed. Oh, well. A small price to pay. He picked the nightshirt he had chosen and draped it over the carved screen he used for changing.

He sat down at the table again to finish his dinner. He had to keep himself from picking all his clothes up again, but it was all worth it when Castiel returned. His manservant came in, carrying two buckets of steaming water, and his jaw dropped so far and so fast that Dean had to cough to hide his laugh. The eyes of the two servants bulged ridiculously. Of course they’d know that this was definitely not how their crown prince’s chambers normally looked. Dean could just see how they were about to ask what happened, but a sharp glance silenced them preemptively. It also made them avoid any further eye contact, but thankfully that was not a prerequisite to pouring water into the bathtub.

Castiel seemed to be steaming just as much, if not more than the water in the now half-full tub and was very visible striving to keep his mouth shut. Dean wasn’t sure if Castiel would have said anything had the other servants been absent, but keeping quiet apparently did not interfere with sending openly murderous glances at him when the three men filed out of the door in their quest for more hot water. Dean felt very accomplished. Had anybody seen Dean right now, they might have described his smile as slightly maniacal as he finally finished his dinner and arranged all the rests in a neat circle along the rim of his plate, purposefully leaving only one relatively clean area. He then proceeded to smear the rest of the gravy and mashed potatoes on the underside.

By the time the servants returned with another six giant buckets of steaming water, Dean had pushed the plate away and had strewn the table with an array of books and maps. The servants emptied the buckets into the tub and left again as quickly as they could. Castiel put down his buckets next to the fireplace with obvious displeasure, the water sloshing around. He filled the enormous kettle and moved the hook back over the fire. Later, once Dean was done having his bath, the water from the kettle was going to be mixed with the water in the buckets to heat it up again so that Dean would be able to rinse with warm water. Dean could see the ticking of Castiel’s jaw and gleefully decided, in a burst of adventurous pettiness, against preparing himself for his bath; after all he did have a manservant now. However, Dean being Dean and the situation being as it was, Dean waited until Castiel was obviously angling for the door again.

“Now that you’ve got a bath made with hot water, as specified, I shall allow myself to take my leave.”

“It’s your first day as a manservant, and you obviously do not know your duties yet, so I shall be graceful and forgive your blundering ignorance. You won’t be taking your leave just yet, and for the future, you’re my manservant, so you’re not taking anything. Once I allow you to go, you won’t be taking anything that I’m not more than willing to part with,” Dean pronounced with princely grandeur. “What you _may_ do now is prepare me for my bath.”

For the second time this evening, Castiel’s jaw dropped, and Dean enjoyed it just as much as the first time. This was wonderful. He should have got a manservant much sooner.

“You want me to prepare you for your bath?” Castiel all but squeaked, and colour shot into his cheeks, something the man definitely noticed and most definitely didn’t like, going by how fast he turned away from Dean to face the bathtub instead.

“Of course. You’ll undress me, clean my room while I soak, wash me, and prepare me for bed. Why, is there any problem?” Dean said, nonchalance personified.

“No, of course not,” Castiel bit out through his teeth.

“Wonderful,” Dean said, getting up from the table. He walked over towards the tub in front of the fire, stopping in front of Castiel. “Then get to it, I really don’t fancy having to wait for you to trudge up more hot water.”

By now it was impossible to tell whether Castiel was as red as he was because of the physical exercise of carrying four buckets of water over five flights of stairs, his obvious anger at Dean, or any embarrassment afforded by the situation in which Dean had put him. For a short moment Castiel stared at Dean like a deer caught in the open, but then he seemed to pull himself together, and, with a murderous glint in his eyes and to Dean’s great amusement, he started deftly untying the fastenings of Dean’s shirt around his wrists.

As Castiel first moved on to the clasps of Dean’s vest and then the front of his shirt, Dean all at once realised that he might have put himself into a somewhat compromising and very poorly thought-out position. The fire was a wall of heat on his left side; on his right the steam rising from the tub felt warm and cosy. Somebody, and Dean would be prepared to bet good money that it had not been Castiel, had added his favourite bathing salts to the water, and Dean was slowly enveloped in the smoky scent of the fire and citrus and lavender notes wafting up from his bath, and something else, something much spicier. It was long dark outside, and his chambers were lit by the fire and a dozen thick beeswax candles. Castiel movements had slowed down, and he was undressing Dean slowly, carefully, with what appeared to Dean to be much more lingering touches than necessary. He looked flushed, and his normally irritatingly blue eyes looked dark in the light of the flames, the soft crackling of the fire and the rustling of the fabric suddenly the only sounds Dean could hear. The wine from dinner tasted heavy on his tongue. Dean’s vest and shirt were pushed off and Dean shivered when he felt Castiel’s hands briefly against his shoulders. Castiel stepped back to put the clothes away and Dean heaved a deep breath. Castiel stepped back towards Dean, briefly biting his lip and avoiding eye contact as he made moves to continue his work with Dean’s pants. And Dean knew with humiliating clarity that, while _he_ might be able to continue the uninterested, blasé, princely act, another part of his anatomy definitely would not. Dean was grateful for the relatively low light of the room, because that meant that the beet-red colour of his face was probably not all that visible, if he was lucky.

“Boots first, you clot,” Dean croaked out, proud that he had had the presence of mind to divert Castiel’s attention into a much less agitated direction. Because apparently the mere thought of Castiel’s hands _there_ had been enough to make little Prince Dean perk up in interest.

Dean shuffled over to his bed, wishing he had his shirt back to hold strategically in front of him, and, once he had plopped down, pulled one of the furs over himself as inconspicuously as he could. It was not anywhere near cool in the room, but needs as they must and such, Dean added a little shiver for effect. Or rather, pretended the shiver running over his skin had been elicited by something different than Castiel kneeling down in front of him, even if that was only to tug off his boots. Crisis momentarily averted, once the boots were off with two, in Dean’s opinion needlessly, hard tugs that made Dean bite back a groan when he felt himself being bodily pulled forward by the sheer force of them, he waved Castiel off when he wanted to return to his former task of acquitting Dean of his trousers.

“I’ll finish myself, otherwise the water will be cold by the time you’ve figured out how this works,” Dean huffed. He could see Castiel grit his teeth. Castiel probably thought that Dean was angry with him. Which was, if not entirely false, not entirely true either, but if that allowed for Dean’s constant blushing to be interpreted in any other way… Dean would surely be the last person to complain. Even if it did make him feel a bit guilty. And maybe slightly bad for Castiel. The realisation that he had in all likelihood discovered the reason for the reddish tint of Castiel’s face, namely anger, felt unexpectedly disappointing. Dean cleared his throat. “Prepare my bed in the meantime.”

While Castiel was occupied sorting through the heaps of clothing on his bed, Dean quickly disappeared behind his dressing screen, got out of his trousers and undergarments, and looked at the traitor between his legs. He tried thinking of all the things that usually helped to make things go away - dead fish, Sammy, Bobby naked - but whenever he thought he was getting somewhere, Dean heard Castiel rustling around on the other side of the screen, realised he was standing here naked with only a thin screen between them, remembered that he was going to be sitting in the bathtub naked with Castiel right next to him, and little Dean’s interest came back with a vengeance. Dean sighed and grabbed his thick robe, the one he usually only put on on very cold nights. Doing his best not to change the way the robe fell too much by bending forward, he glanced down his front, checking whether certain things remained visible. Thanking the heavens that the robe was fluffy enough to make his situation less obvious, and cussing himself out for reacting like a sixteen year old teenager, Dean slipped back out from behind the screen, over to the tub and into the water before Castiel could turn around from the bed. He simply let the robe drop to the floor.

As soon as Dean was in the water, he had to keep himself from shooting right back out, and he started swearing up a storm, now loud enough for half the castle to hear.

“Is something the matter, my lord?” Castiel came over and asked sweetly, a wide, much too innocent smile plastered onto his face.

“What the hell did you do to the water, this is scalding hot! I’m being cooked alive!” Dean bellowed.

Castiel’s innocent eyes grew impossibly wider.

“But, my lord, you expressed your fears  of being faced with cold bathwater due to my deficiencies, so I wanted to make sure Your Highness gets to enjoy a _hot_ bath, in _hot_ water, and I took the liberty to add the hot water from the stove. I am sure that, by the time Your Lordship has finished his absolutions, the water will be hot enough again for a royal rinse.”

“I will give you a royal rinse once I’m out of this water!” Dean shouted. “I’ll have you cooked in it instead!”

Castiel was vastly unimpressed.

“That would be quite a novel idea of execution. I imagine it would be much easier to get the courtyard cleaned up again than after burning people.”

Dean snorted.

“Only sorcerers are burned.”

“And those are not people?”

“Sure they are, I suppose, just bad people. People with magic always are,” Dean shrugged. He was still contemplating whether he should get out of the water, but he must have been colder than he had thought, because after that initial shock of _hothothot_ the temperature had mellowed out, and he felt himself melting against the tube, arousal momentarily banked.

“I see.”

“Huh?”

The warm water was making him drowsy, and when he lifted his head to look at Castiel, he saw him standing next to the bed, wringing one of the cushions Dean had thrown down earlier, his lips in a tight white line.

“When I arrived here a man was being beheaded for magic.”

What? There had been no execution of any sorcerers for some time now, thankfully; Dean hated the pyres. How the condemned screamed, how their skin melted under the licking attacks of the flames. How the air stank of burnt flesh. How his mother had- _no._

“Oh, he wasn’t executed for doing magic. If he had been a sorcerer, he’d have been burnt,” Dean explained. “He aided a sorcerer. Conspired with them. In those cases it’s just beheading. For the sorcerers, beheading is not really enough to kill them, at least that’s what people say. And those bastards are completely ruthless and usually a bitch to catch, so once you’ve got them, why risk it, you know?”

Castiel had put down the cushion and wouldn’t look at Dean while he was pulling back the rest of the covers and arranging the pillows, smoothing the fabric with jittery strokes. When he turned back around to start folding up the clothes Dean had thrown around, Dean frowned. Castiel was white as a sheet, and Dean was sure he could see his hands trembling.

“You’re a bit green, you okay?” Dean asked. Just because he sometimes acted like an asshole didn’t mean he was one. _Although Castiel really wouldn’t know that, would he_ , a voice in the back of his head whispered. Right now Castiel looked less than one turn away from throwing his dinner back up. _If he’s had dinner already_ , the voice was back.

“No, no, I’m fine,” came the answer, just a tick too fast for Dean to be believe it. When Dean didn’t say anything and just raised his eyebrows, Castiel shrugged. “I suppose those pyres must be quite the spectacle for a king and a prince to preside over, be it innocents that burn or not. I understand why you enjoy it, being the crown prince and, well, you.”

Dean felt as if the steaming water had turned to ice. Any remnants of arousal he might have still been harbouring instantaneously disappeared. Surely this couldn’t be… surely this wasn’t what Castiel really thought? About him? What had he done to give Castiel this impression? How had he acted that Castiel could say this with not so much as a hint of doubt, a moment of hesitation? Was that the prevailing opinion amongst the people? Dean felt sick, his dinner sat like stones in his stomach. The idea that he might be enjoying the pyres made him gag, and he swallowed furiously to keep everything down. Dean did not know what to say, how to react. He sat frozen, staring at Castiel, who had not stopped bustling about the room, cleaning up.

“I…” Dean started and stopped again. He felt like a stranded carp, desperately opening and closing his mouth, but to no avail, he was suffocating, choking on the barrage of scrambled thoughts and feelings competing to drown him. Dean swallowed furiously, casting about for what to say, but for all the screaming in his head, his mind was blank. He tried again, but no sound came out. This was not the first time this accusation had been flung at him, but he had never felt the need to defend himself and had never felt it to be aimed at him personally. At the Crown, of course. In those cases, it had been easy to end the discussion; it was the law, and that was enough. Now Dean was stripped raw, and he knew that in this moment, his answer would be his and his alone, not the Crown’s. Why this would be the case, and why this made Dean dread what his answer might be, or rather, how it would be received, he did not know. Castiel continued looking everywhere in the room but at Dean.

“I do not enjoy executions,” Dean finally managed. “And we do not execute innocent people. Magic is evil, and there is no other way to keep everyone safe. And we do not just chop off their heads on a whim; they are given a fair trial.”

“A fair trial?” Castiel scoffed. “How can it be a fair trial when the law says that any use of magic is punishable by death in the sense of _will_ be punished with death?”

“They are tried for whether it was magic or not!” Dean interjected, growing irritation colouring his words. He believed in his soul that magic was evil; it simply had to be, seeing with what he, his father, his people, were confronted with every time Camelot was plagued by another magical catastrophe. What his family had been confronted with when Dean had still been too young to understand what was happening when his father had told him to take Sammy and run. But he understood now. He was intimately aware of the badness of magic and its users. There was no room for leniency, for mercy when it came to sorcery. The first thing his father had taught him about fighting magical beings had been that if you got half a chance for a kill, you did it, because otherwise it would only come back to bite you in the ass later on. This was something Dean lived by, and he stood one hundred percent behind the law that supernatural beings had to be gotten rid of for the good of the kingdom. This was what he spent his days doing when he wasn’t smiling for the people or visitors, when he wasn’t sitting in a council meeting or attending talks between his father and dignitaries from other kingdoms, negotiating treaties. Like all knights did, Dean being one of them, he went hunting the creatures that terrified and killed his people. More often than not, those were sorcerers and witches. He didn’t enjoy killing, but he would protect his people, and magic was the biggest threat they faced.

“Your father has always been very swift and decided in his dealings with magic. Whenever there is any question of magic being involved, they’re always sentenced to death, be it on suspicion if nothing else,” Castiel glowered at him. “Suspected sorcerers and suspected collaborators both.”

“Magic’s nothing you can take a chance on, Castiel, sorcerers are everything that’s wrong with this world, and helping them is just as bad as wreaking havoc yourself!” Doing his best to keep up a poker face, but internally biting his lip, Dean knew that usually he would probably be steaming with anger at such a rebuttal, that he probably _should_ be in the face of Castiel’s inordinate behaviour. However, even if he did not want to acknowledge it, deep down he also knew that the anger he was feeling was born from the fear that Castiel might be right, and he and his father wrong, and what that would mean for the acts that Dean had not entirely condoned, but not done anything to prevent either. Accusations _were_ always met with swift trials, and swifter verdicts. If there had been obvious magic, for everybody there to see, then there was nothing to contest. There was no doubt. But what about those cases where it was one word against another? Where there was no direct proof? Not everybody ended up on the block or the pyre, but in case of doubt… in case of doubt his father did what he had taught Dean as a four-year-old boy: _Deal the blow. You never know._ Dean would be lying if he told himself that there had never been any cases where he had disagreed with his father. In private, or very demurely in court, or not audibly at all, but he _had_ disagreed. Dean was very good at lying to himself, he recognised that, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t here, not in this case.

“I see.”

Castiel’s voice was flat, inflectionless. The room was cleaned up as much as was possible to do with Dean right there, the bed was prepared, and Castiel was standing next to it with a look of abject resignation on his face. Dean wondered why Castiel was not trying to get out of the room again like when he had finished his work before.

When he remembered, Dean’s heart kicked into overdrive, and he quickly looked down to see if the vibrations of his heart were visible on the water. He had told Castiel that he’d have to wash him. _Fuck._ It had been a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ idea before, but now, after their discussion… Whether Castiel appeared to be in physical pain from having to hold back his anger about the entire situation of suddenly having to serve Dean, or whether it was simply that he absolutely couldn’t bear being in Dean’s presence because he thought that Dean was a monster who enjoyed watching people burn, Dean could not imagine himself telling Castiel to get on with it. To come over, take the washcloth, and scrub him clean. The man had obviously resigned himself to do just that, and it was only now that Dean felt that he truly grasped how much Castiel loathed all this. Loathed _him_. For the second time this evening, Dean felt as if the ground underneath him had suddenly disappeared, as if his stomach were in free fall.

“You’re done for today, you can leave,” Dean said, proud that his voice did not sound like he felt.

Castiel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he tilted his head, puzzled.

“You’re letting me off early? I thought you wanted me to wash you…” Castiel trailed off.

Dean felt blood shoot into his cheeks. Yeah, he had kind of forgotten that piece of brilliance. He wondered distractedly whether he shouldn’t feel dizzy, seeing how many times the direction of his blood flow had been abruptly changed today.

“No, that’s fine, you’d probably do a shit job of it anyway, also it’s probably way too risky-” _because I might just pop a boner and shit, no, Dean, you can’t say that aloud, fuck fuck_ ** _fuck_** , “to… well, to have a complete stranger that close to the Crown Prince of Camelot, when he’s all naked and unarmed and, well, not helpless, and I can fight without a weapon, and naked, but…”

_Oh gods, just kill me now…_

Yup, the frequent reorientation together with everything else that had happened today had fried his brain. Castiel’s eyebrows had taken on a life of their own, grown wings, and were apparently preparing to take flight as well, they were so far up his forehead it should not be humanly possible. Dean settled for some eye-rolling and some very much not visible at all further blushing. And it really wasn’t visible, given that he had already reached his maximum blushing capacity when he had remembered his fantasies of Cas - _very diligently_ \- sponging him clean from fifteen minutes ago.

“Just clean the table and go.”

Dean could hit himself. Yes, he didn’t want Castiel as his servant, and yes, he had been thinking of making him quit, but this entire evening seemed like a study in how to be a complete and utter asshole. For some reason, Castiel seemed to truly bring out the worst in him, and wasn’t that cliche. Dean had never met anybody who managed to rile him up with quite as much effortless grace as Cas did. Right now, however, the man was silent and subdued when he started stacking the dishes, and Dean startled himself when he caught himself missing the cheeky, insolent version of his manservant.

There was a sudden crash followed by some rather inventive cursing.

 _Oh shit. The plate. He had forgotten about the plate._ Dean wanted to sink under the surface of the water and never come up again. It had seemed like a great prank before, but after the turn the evening had taken… if Castiel had had any doubts left that Dean was a comprehensive twat, he probably was not entertaining them any longer. He looked up at Castiel. When the plate had slipped from his hand, the left-overs had splattered all over his clothes and his hands. The dishes were a heap of shards on the table and partly on the floor.

Dean drew a deep breath, but before he could say anything, Castiel just shook his head.

“No. Don’t.”

Castiel picked up one of linen napkins, wiped his hands clean and the worst off his clothes. Those would have to be washed, and until then there was no hiding that Castiel had been on the receiving end of a food-bomb. When he was done, he started picking up the shards, but this time Dean interrupted him.

“No, don’t do that. I’ll call somebody to clean it up.”

Castiel did stop, for a moment, and looked over at Dean, who was starting to feel very naked in the tub. Castiel’s blue eyes were ice cold.

“No, thank you, that is quite unnecessary. I have caused this mess, for one reason or another, and I will be the one to clean it up.”

Castiel had not said anything, but Dean could hear the disapproval dripping from it, aimed at Dean’s suggestion and probably Dean’s existence in general. It went unsaid, but it was not lost on Dean that by this logic it would be he himself who should be the one to clean this up. Castiel did not say it, of course not, how could he, being a servant shackled to the crown prince, but Dean knew it to be true nonetheless. He was ashamed.

While Castiel carefully picked up the pieces and placed them on the tray, and then got the broom and carefully sweeped the floor, silence reigned supreme. Dean stared into the depth of his tub, and Castiel was busy not looking at Dean. Dean didn’t know whether the other man ever looked at him during the time it took him to get all properly cleaned up, but he didn’t imagine he would, except maybe to glare at him. During their banter Dean had enjoyed the open looks, the direct eye-contact. Now he missed it. In any case, it was clear that Castiel would never look at Dean the way he looked at him in Dean’s fantasies, and it was Dean’s fault, and he would have to live with that. Not that he wanted Castiel to look at him like that in real life anyway. Still, he did feel bad for how this evening had gone to shit.

“Good night,” Castiel said stiffly, manoeuvring the door open with his hands full and careful not to drop anything.

Dean mentally kicked himself into gear.

“Thank you for saving my life, Cas, and I apologise for my father.”

Castiel appeared completely stunned at Dean being capable of showing manners. There was no answer, and when his curiosity finally won out against his embarrassment, Dean peeked over his shoulder to see what was going on. Castiel was still staring at him wide-eyed.

“What?” he muttered. “You did save my life, and the least thing I can do is thank you. I know you’re unhappy with how my father 'rewarded' you, so, sorry about that. Not that I’m happy about having you as a manservant either, but that’s hardly your fault.”

“Cas?”

Dean felt himself blushing furiously and decided that trying to scry the best way to make himself disappear from the rapidly cooling water in the tub was better than facing Castiel. Ever again.

“You’re welcome.”

Dean twisted around so he could see Cas- Cas _tiel_ -, just in time that he could almost certainly say that the court answer had probably been accompanied by a whisper of a smile, but as quickly as it had - maybe - appeared, it was gone again, and Castiel with it.

As soon as Dean was alone, he got out of the tub and got the water to rinse off. The single kettle did little to warm the bucket of, by now, completely cold water, but it was better than nothing. Dean grabbed the washcloth and perfunctorily wiped himself down with the tepid water before stepping back into the tub and using the rest to rinse.

He wrapped himself in his thick robe again, its thickness now appreciated mainly because of the warmth and less because of the coverage it provided, and padded over to the door. He opened it a gap to check whether Castiel was gone, and, when he couldn’t see his manservant, he motioned for the guard stationed at the entry to the corridor that lead to his chambers - he did not need a guard standing in front of his door, thank you very much - and told them to get some servants to remove the tub and the bathwater.

While the servants worked, Dean walked over to his desk, got out a bottle of strong liquor, the good kind he kept for when he had to mull things over, and poured himself a rather large glass. Standing next to the window, he could see the courtyard, and in the flickering light of the fires that had been lit at nightfall, he almost imagined that he could see the damage the cobblestones had suffered where the statue had impacted. Dean shuddered. Dean was no idiot; he knew how close a call it had been. It had kept running and running around his head, how lucky he had been. What a miracle it was that Castiel had managed to get to him in time. Frankly, what a miracle it was that Castiel had actually bothered, given his opinion of the prince.

And Dean also kept thinking about what he had seen when he had checked the pedestal of the statue with Benny and Charlie later on. A chill crept up his spine. So far nobody except the three of them knew about it, but the stone had been cut clean through. The surface of the cut was completely smooth, smoother than it had any right to be. And the cut had been made at the perfect moment, at the perfect angle for the statue to slide down and hit the prince. This had been no accident. Dean took a grim sip of his drink. It had been an assassination attempt.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Castiel slowly pushed the door to Dean’s chambers open, just a tiny bit, carefully balancing the prince’s breakfast, to see how the situation presented itself. Who knew what the prince might have gotten up to during the night. The first thing Castiel saw was the bed, still prepared to receive its royal occupant, and very obviously not slept in. Castiel frowned. Had anything happened to the prince after he had left the night before? Castiel gradually crept inside, worry pooling in his chest, telling himself that this was just a normal reaction, what with the prince having been entrusted in his care. Who knew what the king would do to Castiel should anything happen to Dean. In short, Castiel crept inside because he was definitely only worried to the rational amount called for by the situation.

Only to find Dean slumped in his great chair, leaning half on the table and half on the armrest. Castiel stopped, and stared. He had drawn the curtains the evening before, but the early morning sun had found a few slits between the panels of thick, red fabric to peek through. With an unhappy, frustrated sound, Castiel noted that one such golden ray had managed to land on the prince’s head, illuminating him from behind and making his hair shimmer like a halo. It was plain and simple unfair that all of nature and creation was conspiring in favour of accentuating Dean’s good looks. His current position could not be in any way comfortable, and Castiel was prepared to bet that he would wake up with a kink in his neck. Still, the prince looked… different, asleep like this. The ever-present smirk was gone, replaced by a soft, near-invisible smile, and the mocking twist of his eyebrows had smoothed out. Dean appeared much younger this way, almost innocent, had it not been for the empty bottle of what smelled suspiciously like rather strong liquor resting precariously in his slack hand.

Castiel snorted. Dean might be many things, but innocent was certainly not one of them. With a shudder, he remembered the prince’s views on magic and what to do with its users. Castiel’s eyes darted to where the bathtub had been yesterday, but it was gone. Castiel could not decide whether he ought to be surprised by that or not. Clearly, it would have been Castiel’s duty to have it removed; Dean dismissing him well before that was either a nice gesture, saving Castiel the labour, or an obvious snub of the manservant. Castiel _was_ sorry that somebody else had to go through the trouble of emptying the tub and disposing of the water, but, on the other hand, gift horse and so on. Castiel shrugged. If Dean already thought him incompetent and disliked being waited on by him, then that might actually help further Castiel’s agenda of getting released from his post as soon as possible. He was aware that, since the king had appointed him, Dean might not be able to dismiss him, but maybe, if Dean complained enough, his father might be persuaded.

Only that Dean had apologised. And thanked him for saving his life. Castiel had been so dumbstruck by that gesture that he had not known how to react. Yesterday evening had, in fact, been a constant emotional up and down. Blushing, Castiel remembered that that had been true for a physical part as well.

Castiel had been grumbling the entire way from the prince’s chambers to the laundry about his misfortune of having to serve the prince, the latest edition of that misfortune being the prince’s demand for a bath. However, once he had ordered the water to be heated, he had somehow found himself asking how the prince usually took his baths, and had then dutifully collected the salt. A nice gesture, very dutiful, except it went diametrically against his declared goal of being a crappy servant and getting fired.

However, not much later Castiel had felt like a cat rubbed against the grain, and in a fit of anger had heated the water magically. A lot. Which had been all kinds of petty and stupid, considering where he had been and in whose presence; he could only hope that Dean had been too preoccupied to notice. And in addition to all that, it had been completely pointless, because once he had seen Dean’s face pinched in pain and his rapidly reddening skin, Castiel had immediately been overwhelmed by his bad conscience and had reduced the temperature again. He had not meant to actually hurt Dean.

Remembering the bathwater brought back the thoughts Castiel had been trying to keep at bay that night so he could get at least some sleep. Dean in the bathtub. A very naked Dean in the bathtub. With nothing but a few buckets of water to keep him covered. Castiel could feel his face heat up at the thought. Bobby had asked him whether he was running a fever when he had got in yesterday, and this morning Bobby had all but demanded to check Castiel’s temperature when he had still been very obviously flushed. He had assured Bobby that everything was alright, that he was fine, and maybe he had just got a little too much sun the day before. Bobby had not appeared to be anywhere near convinced, and Castiel could not fault him for that. How should he not have looked flushed when he had been reliving the bathing scene in vivid detail the entire night.

His nightly libido definitely had not minded the nosedive their conversation had taken. When he had woken up to the results of that particular part of his night, cringing at the feeling of his pants stuck to certain places, Balthazar had managed to get in his two cents and had cackled like a mad witch from his perch next to the window. Castiel had threatened to keep the window closed in the future, up to and including the winter. Enraged, Balthazar had taken off into the main room as soon as Castiel had opened the door, stolen the cheese off the breakfast plate Bobby had prepared for him, and flown up into the rafters under the ceiling from where he had continue to hackle Castiel.

Castiel had planned on ducking out as fast as possible, but Bobby, ever one step ahead, had handed him the pouch they used for the medicine phials before he had even finished his tea. While Castiel had sipped his tea and finished his porridge, Bobby had showed Castiel every single phial as he had slipped it in and explained the contents. He had also reminded Castiel to whom it was to be delivered and how much of it should be taken. The last phial had again been the one with the bright blue liquid for the prince. Of course. He’d never escape the prat. Castiel had not really got any sleep, partly because Dean had kept him so late, partly because Dean had commandeered his dreams, it was early morning and he was tired and grumpy and generally displeased with the world at large and his lot in particular. Castiel had not even consciously decided to roll his eyes, they’d rolled all on their own.

“Honestly, if the royal prat can’t get it up, he should—“ he’d groused, but the speed at which Bobby’s eyebrows had taken off towards heaven had stopped Castiel dead in his tracks.

“Surely, Castiel, you are not just assuming things? Surely, you inferred this based on hard evidence? Because as a physician’s apprentice, this would be an _awfully_ embarrassing mistake to make, wouldn’t it?”

 _Oh Gods_. Surely, Bobby couldn’t know what had happened last night?

Bobby snorted and shook his head.

“This is a distillation of herbs for the prince to help him sleep.”

Castiel had felt the blood shooting into his cheeks. Balthazar had cackled so madly he’d accidentally dropped his cheese, which had, _of course,_ dropped right into Castiel’s tea. Why could he never _ever_ catch a break.

“Boy’s been hunting creatures since he was a kid, what’d you think that does, make somebody feel all gushy and warm inside and help them sleep? Even been abducted by trolls once; took the king almost four months to get him back. Not pretty sleep-enhancing memories either. And then there’s the normal fights and battles simply with the other kingdoms and the occasional bandits and rogue knights,” Bobby explained. He gave Castiel an assessing look. “Being the prince and future king ain’t always all that fun, you know. Not that Dean’d ever let that show.”

“I see,” Castiel said, sheepishly.

“Hardly. Prejudice’s an ugly thing to be caught up in”, the older man said, eyes twinkling. “But I don’t blame you. The boy’s got enough pride for the entire country, ’s hard to see around that sometimes. Hard to let other people help you with pride like that. Still, make sure you remind him that he really should take it, and that it’s three drops.”

Castiel nodded and made a hurried escape.

If he was completely honest with himself, Castiel had to grudgingly admit that part of him had actually been somewhat disappointed about not getting to wash Dean. Which was, quite frankly, completely daft, because why would he want to do menial tasks for the prince. An image of the prince’s muscular back, a taut belly with just that little bit of softness, and a very well-rounded posterior sprang to mind, but Castiel was quick to ignore those. Just like he had been ignoring them ever since he had, entirely accidentally, beheld the prince in all his glory when he had dropped his robe to get into the water.

However, the point was moot, since the prince had obviously later on changed his mind about allowing Castiel anywhere near him. Castiel ventured a guess that Dean didn’t want anybody this close who apparently sympathised with sorcerers, or at least was not entirely gung-ho on lighting them up any chance they got. And that was the other thing that had kept Castiel awake. Who knew whether he had made himself suspicious? Maybe Dean would have him arrested and on a pyre as soon as he woke up. Castiel’s heart clenched. He was afraid, even if he did not want to admit it. Dean _had_ looked somewhat stricken when Castiel had suggested Dean enjoyed burning sorcerers, but that had only been because Castiel was not enthusiastically agreeing with him on the issue, right? By the end of their conversation Castiel had been half-anticipating Dean calling the guards down on him; he had barely been able to believe it when Dean had actually thanked him for saving his life instead.

Castiel sighed. His mind had been going in circles ever since he had left Dean’s chambers yesterday, and going over the same issues another three-thousand times would not change anything, nor would it bring Castiel any clarity as to where he stood with Dean. There really was nothing for it; Castiel would have to wake Dean or wait until he woke.

Castiel finally moved fully into the room and closed the door behind him. The obnoxious ray of sunlight was still painting Dean in angelic colours, so Castiel could not have been lost to his thoughts for too long. He put the tray with the food and Dean’s tea down on the table in front of him, being much louder than necessary. The plates clanked satisfyingly loudly, and Dean startled awake, sending the bottle in his hand flying. It landed in the middle of the bed, and Castiel was grateful the bottle was empty; otherwise he would have had to spend the entire day trying to get the stains out of the bedding. Dean himself almost slid out of the chair and only just caught himself, flailing around wildly until he got hold of the table. The only reason the tea wasn’t sent flying in its turn was Castiel lifting it away quickly enough.

“What…?” Dean croaked, turning around wildly.

He looked adorable with his hair standing away in all directions and the very visible imprint of creases on his cheek. Castiel could not keep himself from staring for a second since all his other restraint was spent on keeping himself from running his hands through Dean’s hair in a quest to mess it up even more.

Somewhere deep inside Castiel’s chest, something clenched at those words. Castiel did not know what it was and he had no desire to find out, because what he did have was a strong suspicion that he would not like what he might discover. The dragon’s - yeah, well, if it was a dragon and not simply a chatty lunatic - words echoed in his head. He might not be fond of Dean, _at all_ , but seeing Dean hurt, seeing him suffer, was… not right. Something inside of him bristled at the mere thought. Castiel was well aware that yesterday’s incident had been an attempt at Dean’s life, and remembering how close it had been, what would have happened had he been but a second slower, made him feel dizzy. He did not like the prince, _at all_ , so why was he feeling so invested in his well-being?

Dean groaned as he sat up, rubbing his elbows.

“That’s gonna bruise. Gods, I wish I could just sack you.”

Castiel grew irritated with himself. This was what he wanted after all, so why was he unhappy about Dean’s wishes aligning with his own?

“If you hadn’t rescued me yesterday, I’d be tempted to think you’re after my life yourself,” Dean said. The prince slowly got stood up, as if testing that everything was in working order. “First you try to cook me like a lobster, and now you’re trying to give me a heart-attack or make me break my neck.”

“I most assuredly am not!” Castiel huffed. And it was true, wasn’t it? He really did not wish the prince any harm. Dean gave him a raised eyebrow. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m as surprised by that as you are.”

A deep, resonating laugh punched out of Dean at that, making him bend over with the force of it. He clutched Castiel’s shoulder for support, and Castiel could not help laughing along. He also got a little pink around his cheeks, but that was something he was hell-bent on ignoring, so ignore it he would.

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you,” Dean finally managed, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“You only notice that now?” Castiel offered, a broad grin settling comfortably on his face.

“Touché,” Dean grinned in turn. He plonked down on his chair again, reaching for his breakfast.

While Dean tucked in, eggs, bread roll, and sausage quickly disappearing, Castiel busied himself covering the bed and picking clothes for the day.

“Pick something sturdy, the green vest and tunic, the brown leather trousers. We’ve got training today,” Dean said, obviously looking forward to it. “Also, pauldron and vembrance, and the light chainmail. That should do it, it’s only practice after all. Once we’re finished, make sure you give them a good wipe-down, also my sword. My sword could do with a thorough polishing as w-well.”

Dean froze and turned crimson, and while it did take Castiel a moment to parse Dean’s statement and figure out his abrupt change of colour, once he did, his face quickly followed suit. They very carefully avoided looking at each other as Dean had apparently decided to keep himself from saying anything else by stuffing his face with the entire rest of his bread roll and the hash browns. Dean looked like a squirrel, and if Castiel’s entire brain had not been desperately focused on dead fish and dying kittens, he would probably have found it cute.

Dean coughed. Castiel carefully glanced over. Dean was emptying his mug of tea like a man on a mission.

“Anyway. Whatever happened yesterday afternoon wasn’t natural, so we’ll go investigate that after training,” Dean finally said, still not looking at Castiel.

It was Castiel’s turn to freeze. Shudders chased over his skin as his stomach revolted. He distantly noted that it was a good thing he had not had a big breakfast, otherwise he would have probably thrown up. His chest constricted, ice-cold fear seizing him in a vice-like grip. Dean had noticed the water. Or he had come to the conclusion that at least one of the reasons Castiel was not fond of burning sorcerers had to do with him being one. Or that the only reason Castiel had got to him in time in the courtyard had been magic.

Dean was going to have him arrested. Castiel would be thrown in the dungeons. He probably would be tortured, to see if he knew any other sorcerers. Castiel would burn at the stake. He started shaking uncontrollably. Bobby would be arrested and killed. Everything was over. He had ruined everything before it had really begun. Castiel felt the floor starting to tilt beneath him.

“I checked the statue yesterday evening. Or rather, what was left of it. Whatever happened to it, I can’t think of any natural way how anybody could have cut that stone so cleanly without polishing it afterwards, and obviously nobody could have done that. The rest of the statue on the pedestal on the balcony was smooth as well, nobody would have had any time to do that either,” Dean continued, completely oblivious to Castiel’s meltdown.

Dean… was not talking about him? He was talking about the assassination attempt. It took Castiel a couple of breaths to calm himself down enough to fully understand what was going on.

He was not in mortal danger.

Dean was not going to burn him at the stake.

At least, not _yet_.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and, panicking, Castiel screamed and almost jumped out of his skin.

“Woah there, buddy, everything alright? You zoned out there for a minute…”

Dean was standing a step behind him, hands up in the air, clearly trying to show that he meant no threat. He looked… concerned? Castiel’s brain felt sluggish, dragging itself from one emotional extreme to the next within minutes was obviously a draining exercise.

“Huh?” was all the reply Castiel managed.

Dean shifted, unsure. He gradually let his hands sink down again.

“I just… you seemed troubled. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that the whole thing got to you like that, I mean,” he scrambled, “not saying that it did. I-I know you’re not particularly fond of me and all, but I just realised that getting me out of the way just in time made it a close call for you too, and, um, there was a lot of debris, come to think of it, so you probably got hurt, because of me, and, and…”

Dean wound down like a music box before stuttering to a wide-eyed halt. He was staring at Castiel like a deer nose to nose with a dragon. Castiel was caught in Dean’s gaze, and all he could do was admire the peridot colour of his eyes. They were standing way too close. Castiel might not have been an expert on that, but he was pretty sure that this was not the average distance between two adults. And yet, he couldn’t step back, what with the wardrobe right behind him, and Dean couldn’t because of the bed, so really, it was just circumstance, wasn’t it… They were still staring at each other, the distant clatter of the awakening castle the only sound. Castiel heard it muffled as if through rough wads of cotton.

Castiel felt drawn in, as if the gravitational centre of his universe suddenly rested within Dean, the only option of movement to fall into him. When Dean’s eyes flicked down to his lips, Castiel’s gaze was magnetically pulled to Dean’s, and for the first time in his life he felt compelled to kiss somebody. Castiel had thought about kissing before, of course he had, what it would be like and all, but usually his stance on the matter had shifted back and forth between neutral consideration and slightly disgusted disinterest. How could exchanging saliva with somebody else possibly be something desirable, pleasurable even? Why did people generally speak so enthusiastically about that? In that moment, however, Castiel understood. For that moment his entire world seemed to consist only of Dean, and feeling the press of Dean’s lips against his own was the only purpose of that world. This visceral epiphany gave Castiel such a shock that it jolted him out of his dazed state, startling Dean in turn and making them jump apart, Dean hazardously dancing away around the bed.

The noise of the castle and in the courtyard below was doubly loud in the awkward silence. Neither of them seemed to know how to react to what had just happened. Both of them were quite obviously blushing, and both of them apparently considered the obvious solution to this to be to quickly turn away from each other and busy themselves with whatever they found in front of them. Castiel resumed sorting through Dean’s clothes to find the items the prince had requested, and Dean all but hid himself behind the curtain while staring out of the window and being hugely fascinated by whatever was happening in the courtyard below.

The silence ticked on the entire time it took Castiel to prepare the clothes, and when he went to the small anteroom - where, Castiel noted, usually the prince’s manservant would sleep - to get the armour, Dean wordlessly slipped behind the screen to get changed. He had been lucky it was summer, otherwise he’d probably have caught a cold, sleeping like this at the table in nothing but his robe, Castiel mused. When Dean reappeared, the green tunic and darker vest _really_ bringing out his eyes, Castiel held up the chainmail. Dean ducked under it, and it slithered down easily enough. The rest was a little more involved, and the unease rolling in waves off Dean was obvious. Castiel sighed internally. He wasn’t sure why the prince seemed quite so unhappy, but then, being stared at the way Castiel had done only minutes ago would most likely put off anybody. When it came to the Crown Prince of Camelot, Castiel apparently was a walking disaster. He didn’t just put his foot in it. He did what children did at lakes in summer, he took aim, built up speed, and then, curled up tightly to a giant human ball, threw himself in.

The silence was only broken by Dean’s commands of which part of the armour had to go where and how it had to be fixed. Castiel wasn’t even being obtuse on purpose, he had just genuinely never been in a situation where he had to help someone put on their armour. Dean seemed to sense that, and his instructions were patient and to the point. Which was nice, but which did nothing to alleviate the general awkwardness of their situation either.

At last, and Castiel sent a prayer of thanks to any gods that might be listening, the weapon belt with the scabbard was fastened, and Castiel handed Dean his sword. Dean thanked him, short and achingly polite, picked up his gloves, and waved for Castiel to follow him.

Dean was about to open the door when he stopped again and cleared his throat.

“Cas, I…” Dean shook his head. “I mean, Castiel. Keep your eyes open, look around, let me know if you see anything suspicious, alright? And I mean, regarding that… incident yesterday. There’s a sorcerer somewhere in the castle, and they’re out for my life, so… keep the entire investigation thing quiet, would you?”

Dean obviously tried so hard to sound normal, but Castiel could hear the slight tremor in Dean’s voice, and he just couldn’t get himself to give a snarky answer. Even if Dean suspected that there was a sorcerer in the castle and would, at this point, probably run Castiel through and then burn him for good measure should there be the slightest possibility of Castiel being that sorcerer.

“Of course.”

Still, at least this way Castiel would be on the inside and maybe in a better position to keep himself safe. Which, however, did nothing to explain why Castiel found himself offering what he did next when Dean had finally shooed them out of the room.

“You’ve been calling me Cas a couple of times.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the prince, I’m allowed to give people nicknames.”

And there went Castiel’s willingness and intention to offer Dean that he could keep using the short form he had come up with. Castiel would bite his tongue off before he’d ever admit to quite liking the nickname.

“Maybe I don’t want a nickname.”

“Well, too bad. You’ve got one now.”

“I won’t listen to it.”

“I can always send you to the stocks for disobedience.”

“You won’t be able to prove I did anything to your food, like spit in it.”

“I’m the prince, it’s enough if I suggest it.”

“Oh, and you’re really very proud of that, aren’t you?”

“Well-”

“It’s not like it’s a personal achievement, you know, being born a prince.”

“Watch what you’re saying, Cas…!”

“Or what, Dean? Will you have me in the stocks?”

“You can’t call me ‘Dean’!”

“Why not, if you’re calling me ‘Cas’?”

“Because I’m the freaking crown prince!”

“And you really get off on that, don’t you, Dean.”

“I do not!” Dean spluttered. Right about then Benny and Charlie joined them, and while Dean tangibly ached to set Castiel right, he kept conspicuously silent now that they had company. The knights slipped into a discussion of the training methods of the day, and that conversation continued until they had reached the training grounds.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Training turned out to be… boring. Castiel’s initial thrill at the swooshing blades and circling opponents sizzled out as soon as the actions took on the hallmark identifier of practice, namely repetition. Lots of it. In formation. In single file. Through a parkour of straw men. Watching each of the knights and, subsequently, the squires, being called forth one by one for a one on one with Dean at least brought with it the morally questionable joy of watching Dean take them apart, both verbally and in actual practice. An aspirant for knighthood, recently arrived in Camelot and admittedly a little too sure of his skills, was reduced to tears after Dean made him go through a set of stance exercises for the sixth time, in front of everyone, and knocked him over every time. In every stance. The most exciting incident before everybody would be allowed to take a break was when a young squire, playing around with the equipment, managed to stumble over his own knight’s sword. It was only thanks to a tiny magical push quickly sent by Castiel that the boy did not end up impaled on the weapon. Dean very nearly exploded and spent the next ten minutes having the squires recite the rules on the safe handling of weaponry.

Shortly after that, Dean called a hold to the proceedings and they took a break. Three servants from the kitchens brought a basket of early apples, slices of bread and cheese, and a couple of jugs of water and watered-down juice.

Castiel watched as Dean mingled with his knights. He was friendly and respectful, and the men and women paid him back in kind. In a quieter moment when no new knight came up to him, Dean waved for the squire from before to come over and had a quiet talk with him. At the end the boy was nodding, a smile on his face. He asked something, but Castiel was too far away to hear it. Dean did a mighty eye-roll, but then shouted for Castiel to bring over two slices of bread. Hooting, the entire flock of squires rushed over, some of the knights in tow, grinning. Castiel raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Dean only rolled his eyes again. He took the two slices and held them to the right and the left of the boy’s head.

“So, tell me what you are. What are you?” he asked, with the air of the long-suffering put-upon and obviously following a long-established script.

“An idiot sandwich!” the boy shouted, with what Castiel could only call misplaced pride, and took off with the other children to raid the basket with the apples.

The squires cheered, the knights laughed, and even Dean couldn’t hide the fond smile stealing over his face. When Dean turned around and met Castiel’s eyes, he winked, amusement obvious in his eyes. Castiel’s heart chose that moment to work a little harder, and for a second Castiel was sure that Dean had to be able to hear it as well.

Shortly afterwards, training resumed, and Castiel decided to help pack up the remains of the food. This did not mean that he could not keep an eye on Dean, however, which was, of course, entirely for reasons of protection. It had grown warm and Dean’s blond hair was sticking up in all directions, damp from sweat. Dean was flushed and obviously enjoying himself, his eyes bright and laughter on his lips whenever he managed to get the better of one of his knights, something that happened often. Castiel found he could not resist the sound, and as soon as the food had been taken care of, the servants taking it back to the kitchens, Castiel drifted closer and closer to the sparring knights.

If Castiel had not been so focused on Dean, he likely would not have been able to save him. Dean and Benny were deep in a fight, both of them pulling out all the stops and neither pulling their punches. The knights and squires had formed a wide ring around the contestants of that impromptu joust, Castiel among them. The fight was exhilarating to watch and Castiel could not take his eyes off Dean. Dean was moving with an almost other-worldly grace, always seeming to know where Benny would strike next, never hesitating about the next swipe of his own sword. He was light-footed and moved efficiently, and Castiel was strongly reminded of a giant cat playing with a mouse. Benny was, admittedly, a rather burly and rather bear-like mouse, and his tactic clearly involved using his bulk to get the better of Dean. Dean was very much unfazed by this and danced around the bigger man, his motions second-nature and fluid in the deceptively careless way that only life-long practice affords. Watching Dean block and strike flawlessly and with barely any thought, Castiel understood what Dean had meant when he had said he had been trained to kill from birth. Seeing all of that in action, the easy strength behind each thrust, made a rippling heat chase down Castiel’s back, which settled low in his belly. Castiel wished he could say it was fear, but even with his very limited experience in that respect, he knew it wasn’t. Dean’s chainmail and tunic hid the play of his muscles underneath, but Castiel had a very good knowledge of anatomy and an even better imagination.

Suddenly confusion flitted across Dean’s face. Castiel only noticed it because he had been admiring the effects of the hard exercise on the brightness of Dean’s eyes. Balthazar croaked in alarm. When Dean’s sword met Benny’s next blow, there was a loud clang and Dean’s sword _crumbled_. Unhindered, Benny’s sword swept in for Dean’s chest, and Dean managed to bring up his shield just in time. The force of it drove Dean back and he stumbled over something green rapidly shooting out of the ground behind him. His shield split with a tooth-rattling crack, and Dean was falling, toppling backwards, Benny’s sword now trained exactly at Dean’s throat.

The entire affair had not taken longer than the blink of an eye, but for Castiel the world had all but stopped. Cold fear for Dean’s life sliced through him as Benny’s sword crept forwards. Benny’s face was slowly morphing from concentration to terror. The panic in Dean’s eyes as it replaced his confusion punched the air right out of Castiel’s lungs. For the second time that day, Castiel pushed somebody out of the way of a blade with his magic. It did not take much, a few inches did the trick, but the fact that only so little space was all the difference between life and death, _Dean’s_ life and _Dean’s_ death, made Castiel feel ferociously sick. Castiel could sense somebody else’s magic in the air, its malicious intent towards Dean a sick aftertaste in Castiel’s mouth.

The prince was getting back on his feet, helped by Benny, who was white as chalk and could not stop apologising. Cursing, they inspect what had tripped Dean up - some sort of vine or root that had definitely not been there before the match had started. The remains of Dean’s sword, the handle and a small heap of shards and dust, as well as the shield that had been cut cleanly in half, were all the evidence that anybody needed to determine that the cause for the crown prince’s almost death had been magic. This time it was obvious to everyone that something untoward had to be going on. And that was not even mentioning vines shooting out of the ground and twisting themselves around the prince’s ankle. Loud chatter started as people discussed what that meant and what to do.

Castiel was reluctant to look away from Dean even for a second, but he knew that, right now, finding whoever was behind the attacks was more important. Scanning the crowd, Castiel allowed his senses to be guided by his magic, and it did not take long before he felt drawn in a specific direction. Following the pull, Castiel pushed through the bystanders, over-eager helpers, and gapers, and ran towards the castle. He caught a glance of a person in a dark coat hurriedly disappearing through gate leading from the training grounds up to the stables, the armoury, and, through there, to the main buildings of the castle. So far nobody else appeared to have seen the cloaked figure. Castiel was reasonably sure that none of the knights would be able to do anything against them anyway, should they really be a sorcerer, and if he had any say in the matter, he would keep Dean as far away from them as he possibly could. Why he felt this way, Castiel decided, was something he could determine later.  

Castiel raced behind, but the presumed sorcerer or witch had a considerable head start, and whenever Castiel lost sight of them, he had to rely on his magic to find them again. Finally, Castiel bolted up a staircase in the main building, the one leading to the archives, and, to his immeasurable surprise, the figure stood there in the corridor, cornered by Charlie. Charlie had her sword up and ready, and the figure had removed the hood of their cloak, revealing a dark haired woman underneath.

“Charlie?” Castiel asked.

“Dean saw you taking off at breakneck speed and figured you might have seen something. The castle is swarming with knights,” Charlie explained, her eyes never leaving the angry woman in front of her.

There was a commotion behind Castiel and he was sure more knights had arrived.

“Who are you?” a deceptively calm voice demanded, a voice that had followed Castiel into his dreams the night before. _Gods no_ . _Dean._

“Why are you here and what do you want?” Dean continued, marching closer until he stood right between Charlie and Castiel, a new sword in his hand. The other two knights, Benny and a knight with dark skin who Castiel did not know, positioned themselves a few yards away in front of the stairs, effectively cutting off all routes of escape.

“What I want?” the woman repeated. She laughed, the sound bitter and humourless. “What I want nobody can give me. But I’ll settle for justice, and I will deal it out myself. Your father took all that was dear to me, and I will take all that is dear to him!”

Before anybody could react, one of the doors down the corridor opened and Rowena stepped out. It was not much of a distraction, but it was enough for the woman to pull out a phial with a vile, orange glow to it and throw it at Dean, all the while muttering a charm. With a scream, Dean started to launch himself at the witch, but Castiel tackled him just in time and managed to push both of them to the ground. Covering Dean as well as he could, Castiel extended his magic around them, curving it to hopefully reflect whatever the woman had thrown back at her. There was a blinding flash and screams, and Castiel was drowned in a wave of dizziness.

“Charlie!” Rowena shouted.

Castiel felt caught up in a deja vu, and before he could open his eyes again properly, Dean shoved Castiel off him and scrambled to his feet. The witch lay on the floor, a haphazard lump of limbs and fabric.

“What happened?!” Dean roared, and Castiel groaned. “Cas, you useless idiot, you tripped me up!”

“Charlie!” Rowena called again, rushing over and dropping to the floor next to Castiel.

Still unsure whether he should try and get up, Castiel sluggishly turned his head to the side to see what was up with Charlie. He blanched. Dean gasped.

Apparently the blast that had been aimed at Dean had ricocheted in the corridor. Benny and the other knight lay knocked down on the floor; they were cursing up a storm and complaining, but clearly still alive. Charlie, however, was lying next to Castiel, blood dripping from her ears, slipping out from her closed eyes, eerily reminiscent of tears, pooling under her head. Blood, bubbly and much too bright, trickled out of her nose and her mouth. The spell had left Dean unscathed, but Charlie had apparently been hit and thrown against the wall, and part of the wall had then crashed on top of her. Her breathing was faint and irregular. Dean yelled for servants, knights, and Bobby, but Castiel knew that there was no way Charlie would survive long enough for them to even get here, let alone for anybody to try and help. Castiel felt tears stinging in his eyes when he realised that, in fact, there probably way nothing anybody would be able to do to help Charlie anyway.

Except maybe magic.

Castiel’s breath hitched. Should he try and help her? Could he? He had never been all that good with healing spells, and if he failed, Charlie would die and Castiel would burn at sunrise. But how could he not try? Charlie had become his friend so quickly, and Castiel would do anything he could to save her… if only there weren’t so many people around. The knights were still out for the count by the looks of it, but there was Dean, and how crazy would somebody have to be to perform magic _in front of the crown prince._ Rowena was there as well, but she loved Charlie, surely she wouldn’t call for Castiel’s head? As to that, Dean loved Charlie too, in his way, so maybe Castiel would be fine. Castiel cringed. He wished he were self-less enough to simply save Charlie, damn the consequences. Especially since he did not know and had no way to find out whether Charlie got hurt in the original explosion or when the force had been thrown back to the witch. Castiel had not realised that Charlie had been standing so far to the side.

Drawing a deep breath, or as deep as he could with how his entire body was hurting, Castiel sat up, biting back another wave of nausea and dizziness. Charlie was wheezing and Castiel could hear the air rattling ominously in her chest. He would distract the other two, send them running away, whatever, and while they gone he would do his best to save Charlie.

However, before Castiel could gather his magic and put his plan into action, Rowena had placed her hands on Charlie’s chest and head. For a moment nothing happened, but when Rowena began chanting in a guttural tongue that felt oddly familiar, a green shimmer spread from her hands all over Charlie, seeping into her. As the spell continued, the light grew stronger and it was obvious how fast Charlie was getting better. Colour seeped back into her pale face and her breaths came easier.

A strangled cry from behind Castiel reminded him of Dean’s presence. Dean who hated nothing as much as magic and magic users. What would he do now? Would he allow Rowena to finish healing Charlie?

Dean stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, a horrified grimace on his face. He had his sword back in his hand, and Castiel was sure that the only reason Dean had not yet attacked was because he was still in shock at discovering a sorceress or a witch, or whatever else Rowena might be, in the middle of his castle. One of the gentle women. Castiel prepared to step in and stop Dean from interfering if necessary. Who knew what could go wrong if Rowena was forced to stop while she was still weaving the spell. Thankfully, Rowena finished before Dean could do anything.

Charlie drew a deep breath and moaned quietly. Rowena grabbed her face, looked her over, and pulled her into a hard hug, petting Charlie’s hair and mumbling into her neck how scared she had been.

Apart from that, silence reigned supreme.

“Dean?” Castiel cautiously asked.

The prince was still staring and did not react. Castiel forced himself to his feet. He stepped in front of Dean, raising his hand to touch Dean’s shoulder, but Dean shoved him aside. He raised his sword at Rowena, who was still cowering on the floor with Charlie. Charlie had her arms around Rowena.

“You are a witch!” Dean accused. “And don’t try to deny it, we all saw what you just did!”

Rowena turned around, her eyes cold as she looked up to Dean.

“Ay, I just saved your best friend’s life,” Rowena drawled, remarkably composed and her accent under control.

“You performed magic,” Dean bit out.

“Dean,” Charlie begged, “Rowena healed me. I felt I was going, and now I’m back, please, Dean, don’t-“

“She is a sorceress in Camelot!” Dean bellowed. “She was probably in on the attempts on my life!”

“No, Dean! She’s… we’re together! She’s my fiancée! Please, don’t do anything-”

“Charlie, you-“ Dean stared at her as if he had seen a ghost. He started shaking his head. “She bewitched you. She’s a witch. She’s evil. She-“

“I would never!”

“Dean, I love her, she would never do anything like that, and she didn’t do anything to harm Camelot or you, look, the other one is over there and-“

“I will inform my father about this,” Dean growled. “Benny! Victor! Get somebody to clean up that _thing_ over there, burn whatever is left of the witch!”

Charlie tried to scramble over to Dean. By now servants, nobles, and more knights had arrived, the audience growing by the minute. Guards built a circle around Dean, Castiel, and the two women, ready to step in at a moment’s notice, swords drawn and trained at Rowena and Charlie. A stretcher was brought up to remove the body of the witch.

“Please, don’t tell your father, nobody has to know, we’ll just leave-“ she begged.

“You have betrayed me and everything we fight for,” Dean whispered, looking at her as if he had never seen her before. “You were my friend, I trusted you! Now I realise I never really knew you, did I?! What were you planning to do, huh? Cozying up with a sorceress behind my back? _You_ _knowingly conspired with a witch!_ And now you’re asking me to _lie to the king_?”

“Dean!”

“Sire!” Victor called. “Before we got knocked over… there was a blue glow all around you as well!”

Castiel stopped breathing. _Oh no._ Drawing on every acting skill he had, Castiel gasped with the rest of the assembly. He felt Rowena’s eyes bore into him. He glanced at her and could pinpoint the exact moment that she guessed what had happened.

“That was a protective shield against the spell of the witch,” Rowena said. Castiel closed his eyes. This was it. She was taking him down with her because he had not been able to save Charlie. “I cast it to protect the prince.”

Castiel’s eyes flew open again and he stared at Rowena. Her expression was defiant and calculating, but there was anxiousness in her eyes too. Why would…? Of course. By claiming that she had saved the prince from grievous harm, she was hoping to save herself and Charlie. Maybe, if she had risked exposure and death to save Dean and his best friend, they would be granted mercy, or at least be able to trade the pyre for exile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How do we know that you were not planning something even worse, that you were not trying to kill me when your ally failed? Your appearance was awfully well-timed.”

“I love Charlie,” Rowena hissed, “and I would never let any harm come to her! Try and kill me if you dare, but if you so much as raise your hand against Charlie, I swear I wi—“

“Rowena, no, don’t—“ Charlie tried to interject.

Dean cut her off with a rigid gesture of his hand.

“Enough. Lady Rowena, you are arrested for the study and practice of magic. Lady Charlie, you are arrested for knowingly cavorting with a sorceress. Guards, take them to the dungeons. Sir Victor, make sure the witch is restrained appropriately and put them into separate cells. Sir Aaron will get the Court Archivist to ensure the bindings will hold. I will go and inform my father; I assume the trial will be held this afternoon. Sir Benjamin, inform the seneschal and the deaths-man that tomorrow morning a pyre will be required for the witch and the block for the traitor.”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The time until the trial passed in a haze. Dean spent lunch sitting at the desk in his chambers, staring into the unlit fireplace. At some point Castiel put a plate of food in front of him and took it away again an indeterminate amount of time later. Dean could not even get himself to rearrange it on the plate to make the kitchen staff feel better. His manservant was pale as a sheet, did not speak a word, and did not even look at Dean. Castiel was probably disgusted with him. No wonder. While the final sentence would not be pronounced by Dean but by the king, Dean had basically just announced that his best friend would be executed the next morning. The idea of having to watch Charlie be drawn and quartered made Dean gag, and, consciously or not, he had told Benny to ready the block, but that seemed only a cosmetic improvement in the grand scheme of things.

Dean was angry. Angry at Charlie for being with Rowena. Angry at Rowena for being a witch. Angry at Castiel for being not enthusiastic about burning sorcerers, and angry at himself for even thinking that because it really only meant that Dean knew that Castiel was right, that it was a barbaric thing to do, that Dean was standing up for his father’s law and not for his friends. Magic was evil. The people using magic were evil. The people who associated with people using magic were evil. Logically, that made Charlie evil, but the suggestion felt so foreign, Dean could almost feel how his brain had trouble computing the idea. But even if Charlie wasn’t evil, how could she associate with a witch? _Love_ a witch? How could she betray Dean like that? He had trusted her with his life in every fight they had ever been in, he had saved her life more times than he could count, and she had saved his in return, just as often. Why would she do that if she was evil? Did she have a master plan that involved becoming Dean’s friend only to stab him from behind? After all, that was the only thing magic people wanted, wasn’t it, power and gold and other people’s suffering? Maybe _that_ was the reason Charlie had done it this way, getting to watch Dean break apart from within? But this was Charlie.

 _Charlie_.

The dorky nerd who knew every single detail about every grand or not so grand battle ever fought, who could list all the famous knights in the five kingdoms back to the Dark Times, who would giggle like a little child every time she bested Dean at anything. The best wing-woman he had ever had, no matter whether they had been picking up girls or in his case, sometimes boys. His father looked upon Dean’s exploits with pleasure and applauded his 'show of virility'; John preferred it when Dean picked up boys merely because there was no risk of royal by-blows. Charlie had been the one who had told him that it was alright to want another man for more than another notch on his bedpost, and that it did not make Dean less of a man if he hated picking up somebody else at every feast. Charlie had been there for him when Sam had left. Charlie had been there for him, silently, with a strong shoulder, and not a single teasing word when Dean had sobbed like a small child when a few years ago a sorceress who had resembled his mother had been burned at the stake; the screams, the stench of burnt flesh throwing Dean back to when his mother had burned at the ceiling of Sam’s nursery when Dean had been four years old. Burned by magic.

His mother had died in agony in flames born by magic.

Magic that Rowena wielded.

Rowena, whom Charlie loved.

Charlie, who Dean loved like a little sister.

Who had betrayed him with magic.

Maybe Rowena had bewitched Charlie, maybe she was under a spell, maybe if Rowena was killed Charlie would be free again and condemn her and thank Dean and all could be well again and Charlie would not be dead, dead because of Rowena, dead because of magic.

Dean felt sick with the maelstrom of thoughts that raced through his head, questions about what was right and wrong chasing each other, mingling, dividing, crashing against each other. Dean fought to keep rationality close to him, but his emotions barrelled in, blurring the issue. The storm in his mind raged on and on, obliterating thoughts before they were fully formed, drowning Dean in the roar and slam of conflicting emotions.

The trial started at the third hour of the afternoon. King John had cancelled, or rather re-purposed the council meeting upon hearing the news. He had been livid when he had realised that a sorceress had lived in the very middle of Camelot, amongst all of them, for the better part of a year, and oh, the humiliation, the impropriety, the scandal of having had her share the king’s table at any feasts that had been held during that time…! The king was spewing profanities and threats at all of his advisors, the captain of the guard, the servants; in short, anyone who could have realised that the Scottish witch was, well, a witch. Dean, of course, was the prime victim of his ire, having allowed Charlie to join the knights in the first place. He was summoned before the trial and John spent an hour shouting at him behind closed doors.

Rowena’s maid had been apprehended and thrown into the dungeon as well, just for good measure. Her reassurances that she had not known had no effect.

When the trial started, the throne hall was filled to the last corner with members of the court. The king marched in, red cape billowing behind him, crown freshly polished on his head, and the sword not in his belt, but ominously enough in his hand. Dean strode in behind him, his face as much of a mask as he could manage. He held himself high, the humiliation, the anger, the betrayal making it difficult to meet anybody’s eyes. So he didn’t and stared stoically at the back of the hall.

The king took his place on the thrown, Dean took his place on the dais to his side, and the trial commenced with a long-winded and hard-worded speech by the king. Then the accused were brought in and the charges laid against them by Metatron, who grinned beadily at having been given that task. The substitute archivist then launched into a detailed summary of the law and a comprehensive list of all the punishments that possibly applied.

The trial itself was a farce, and for the first time Dean could see this in all its horror. Rowena’s maid pleaded for her life, repeating under tears that she had not known. Rowena and Charlie even confirmed it, but being accused, and unofficially already convicted, of sorcery, their word was void. They were declared untrustworthy, because of course they would lie. One was a sorcerer, and the other might as well have been for all they cared. Deciding that the maid had to have known, it was decided that she should receive the same punishment as Charlie. She had not been involved with the sorceress, at least not that anybody knew, and even if being Rowena’s maid had not even been her choice, her having been assigned the post by the seneschal, she could still have come forward as soon as she had found out. The fact that the woman had three children and a baby did not carry any weight. Her husband was dragged from the room screaming and shouting and the king considered it a show of mercy that her husband was not accused of being an accessory as well - mercy that was only given in trade for acknowledgement for guilt.

Dean hoped that Charlie would lie, that she would say she had not known after all, that it had been a spell; maybe, just maybe, if Rowena truly loved her, if she was actually capable of loving anyone, then she could declare Charlie to be under her spell and innocent. In his heart Dean knew it would be a lie; would he be prepared to overlook that for the benefit of not having to watch Charlie being maimed and cut to pieces?

There were witnesses, Benny, Victor, Castiel, and people who had been there in the corridor, yes, but not when the entire thing had actually been happening. Victor was exact in his report, only saying what he had seen, nothing more, nothing less. Benny claimed to have been knocked out by the blast, which he was certain had come from the witch who had thrown the phial, and had not seen anything else. Castiel was, in a way, the bravest of the three of them, because while he did say what he had seen, he kept stressing how everything Rowena had done had only saved people. First him and Dean, then Charlie. He tried to impress upon the court how Rowena had acted completely selflessly, without regard to what she might be accused of when she had done that; in short, Castiel seemed set to prove that Rowena, while a user of magic, was not evil. Anger, pain, and frustration fought for dominance on his face, and he looked at Dean like at the king, eyes full of disdain, hatred and disgust. Castiel was admonished for his views and attitude, and he would pay for it with a few days in the stocks. The only reason he would not be whipped was because he had saved the prince’s life.

As much as Dean wanted to be alert and present with his whole mind, much of the trial passed in a daze. There was nothing Dean could have done anyway. He could only wait for the end, for the ritual question of whether anybody wished to speak on behalf of any of the accused. As tradition had it, the verdict would be announced and then people would be allowed to speak up and make an appeal not based on evidence  but on a plea for mercy. It’s nothing that ever really happened, but it was there in the rules, and the question would be posed, even if it was considered a rhetoric question by now. The law behind it still held. Dean knew that if he wanted to do anything for Charlie, he would have to do it then. He definitely wanted to speak in favour of the maid, but he knew he could do nothing at all for the witch. Her fate was sealed, she would burn in the morning, and while Dean felt no joy about that, he still considered it the right thing. But what about Charlie? What about Charlie?

The question circled his mind and before Dean knew what he would do, the king pronounced the verdict.

“We hereby strip Rowena of all her titles and lands, and pronounce that she shall die in the flames tomorrow morning when the sun has risen over the citadel and its fire touches the pyre. We also strip Charlene of her knighthood and condemn her to watch the sorceress burn, and then to be drawn and quartered in the ashes. Tanya will share her fate.” King John looked around the throne room. The verdict was as expected, but the inclusion of Tanya had shocked people. “Does anyone wish to speak on the behalf of the accused?”

There was silence in the throne room. Dean realised that everybody knew that to open their mouth could mean suicide. He might be the only one who could sway his father.

“I do, Father.”

There was a collective gasp. John narrowed his eyes dangerously and Dean could see how the vein on his temple swelled. Dean swallowed.

“I wish to speak on the behalf of Tanya. I firmly believe that Tanya truly did not know, so I plead for mercy. She is a mother, she has children, and even if she had known about Rowena, she might have kept silent out of fear - fear of Rowena, or fear of precisely this situation. I do not condone silence caused by cowardice, but if your children, Father, if I was threatened with death, would you not do all in your power to protect me? I plead for mercy, Father; as the king it is yours to grant in cases like this where the law might not be able to account for all circumstances. Do not let this go unpunished if you must, but perhaps you will find it in your heart to pardon her and let her pay for her misprision with something other than her life.”

The hall buzzed with murmurs, but the general tone seemed to be approving. At least there were no calls for the woman’s head. Castiel looked at him with surprise clear on his face.

But what about Charlie? Charlie’s eyes were red and tears were streaking down her pale face, but she still managed to stand there tall and defiant.

“I also wish to speak on behalf of Charlie.” Dean’s heart had made his decision for him, and he had allowed the words to spill out before he could decide differently. His father gave the distinct impression of a tea kettle on the fire. Dean plowed on. “Charlie has been a friend for many years, and she has served Camelot well and loyally for many years as one of her knights. She has saved my life many times over and has always been a true companion and honest advisor, something that should be valued highly and honoured by any man or woman, and especially a prince. In light of all she has done for this country, for this city, and for more, I plead for mercy, Father. She did not mean any harm, she only fell in love and committed a grave error in judgement in pursuing this. Instead of death, exile her. Let her leave on the condition that she must never return, on pain of death.”

The king rose. He was bright red in the face and Dean could see how he was trembling with anger. It was obvious that it would not take long for him to lose his patience and that he was only keeping his composure for the court.

“I, King John of Camelot, summarily deny your request for mercy, Prince Dean, on both accounts. The verdict stands.”

The thrown room erupted in gasps, chatter and outcries of disbelief, rage, and contentment.

“Silence!” the king bellowed. “Guards, order! Take the prisoners away to their cells, and clear this hall!”

Dean saw everything through a blur, and it took him a moment to realise that his eyes were clouded with tears. Of rage or greed, he could not say. He wiped them away as quickly and inconspicuously as he could. He only wanted to leave. Maybe he could bribe the guards to let him say good-bye to Charlie… after what he had done right now he had now doubt that his father would forbid him to see her. Dean was surprised that he even wanted to see her after how she had betrayed him, but the thought of never getting another chance to talk to her made him choke up.

“No, Dean, not you. _Stay_.”

Knowing that resistance would be futile, Dean stopped and they waited for everybody to leave, silently glaring at each other. The great oak doors fell shut with finality. Dean felt John’s anger beat against him in hard waves.

“I will not tolerate such insubordination in front of the entire court,” the king hissed. “This kind of attitude is completely unacceptable!”

“Father, I—“

“You embarrassed me!”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to—“

“That’s the problem with you, boy, you never think things through!”

“I’m sorry, sir! I just thought, Charlie was a friend—“

“She was a knight of Camelot and conspired with a witch! What did you think asking for a pardon? _Exile_?! An example had to be made!”

“How can all the work she put into the safety of this city count for nothing? She was a loyal friend!”

“I don’t care if you fucked! Adam was my bastard and I still adhered to the law!”

Dean slammed into a wall. What?

_What?_

“Adam?”

“The man who was executed. Adam of Windom. I had an affair with his mother.”

“You killed your own son,” Dean whispered. Everything around him seemed to shift. His father had a third child? Dean had a half-brother? Another brother? No… Dean had had another brother. His father had killed his own son because he hated magic.

_His father had killed his own child._

John waved his hand, indignant.

“I did for him what I could.”

“You had him executed!” Dean roared.

“I granted him a quick death!”

Dean’s anger suddenly burned itself out and he felt hollower than he had ever felt in his life. He knew he should be furious, he knew he should rage against his father, he should grieve for a brother he never knew, he should write Sam and let him know, he should… Everything felt unreal and Dean was drifting. He was far removed from everything, and he couldn’t do anything, even if he had found the will to keep fighting in that moment. He did not have the strength, he could not even make his own tongue move. He swallowed, but his throat was dry.

His father had killed his own son.

In the case of Adam there had not even been any concrete proof, they had not even had a sorcerer to burn. And yet, the mere suspicion, however well-founded or not, had been enough to dole out the ultimate penalty.

“I know this sounds harsh, boy, but I never got to know him, and I couldn’t have recognised him anyway. There’s you and Sam; the kingdom is in good hands. There was no need for a second spare, especially not one who breaks the law and dishonours everything this family stands for by associating with sorcerers, possibly even studying magic himself.”

Dean could not react in any way. There was nothing he could think of to say, nothing he could think of to do.

John huffed.

“Now, enough of this, no more moping, no more attitude. Go to your chambers, have a drink, an early night. I don’t want to see you around anywhere near the dungeons. Is that understood?”

Dean managed a slight nod, the simple movement feeling like a monumental task and  making his head swim.

“ _Is that understood?_ ”

“Yes, sire.”

The response to that question had been drilled into him for his entire life, it was so automated it managed to slip past the clot blocking his throat.

The king called for the gates to be opened. Dean wondered why John had bothered to send everybody away and the doors closed if he expected his commands to be heard regardless. Gordon and Cole, two of his longest and most loyal servants, pushed the heavy double door open and inadvertently answered Dean’s question. Dean dream-walked out of the throne room and to his chambers, closely followed by John’s own guards. He was not surprised to find more guards lining the corridor and standing next to his door. He had just entered his rooms when bottles of heavy red wine and his favourite liquor were delivered, together with plates of cut meats, cheese and bread. A large apple pie that looked as if it had been heated with hazardous suddenness was set beside a bowl with fried potato sticks. The servants left silently.

Dean could only stare at the food. The mere thought of eating any of it made him retch. Completely lost, the prince let himself drop onto his bed, not caring about undressing. He angled for the phial on his nightstand, plucked it open and let some of the liquid drop into his mouth. He did not count the drops, but the amount felt about right.

Soon, Bobby’s draught took effect and Dean felt himself slip into merciful numbness. He felt like he had not only lost his best friend, but his father as well, and he wondered what his mother would have done today. If things would be better if she were still here. He ached for her comfort and wished somebody was here to hold him and tell him that everything would be okay. That it had not been him who had condemned Charlie to death, directly or indirectly, he did not care. Could he have saved her if he had reacted differently in that corridor, if he had simply trusted her as he had done in so many other situations? Castiel would have supported him, Dean was sure of it. Benny would have done what he asked him to do, and Victor could have been convinced that all had been the work of the dead witch. If he had only reacted differently. But that would have meant letting Rowena go as well, and that was something he could not have allowed to happen. But was killing one more witch worth the loss of his best friend?

A sudden, unbidden image swept across his mind, with Castiel in Charlie’s place. Horrendously wounded in the corridor, in shackles and tears in the throne room, bound in iron as he was being pulled apart in the courtyard. Charlie in the same position, screaming. Dean’s heart raced, panic prickling along his skin like needles. He scrambled for his chamber pot and only just made it before he started heaving. He shuddered and convulsed, but he had eaten nothing since mid-morning at training and there was nothing much coming out now. Soon after he started drifting off. The last thing he saw in his mind before being finally claimed by darkness was Castiel pleading for Charlie’s life and the look of disgust he had given Dean.

Bobby’s medicine was strong, but this night Dean was in hell.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel followed Bobby back to their rooms. Bobby’s face was grim; the only reason the physician wasn’t voicing his opinion in no uncertain language were all the people around them. The entire court had been shocked by the outcome of the trial. The first shock had been the revelation that Rowena was a witch. That outcome had been anticipated. Charlie’s relationship with Rowena had surprised a few; that Charlie had known about Rowena being a witch and had stayed with her anyway had spawned a swarm of theories. Unexpectedly enough, the majority of those did not involve any magical conspiracies against Camelot.

Quite to the contrary, in fact: there were a good many law-abiding citizens of Camelot who considered the whole thing to be rather romantic. Charlie, falling in love with Rowena and staying with her when she discovered Rowena’s secret, and Rowena risking exposure to save Charlie’s life. Everyone loved Charlie, and apparently she had managed to install at least a modicum of goodness in the evil bad sorceress because Rowena had also protected the prince, for which she had been condemned for it by him and his father. The fact that the entire thing was about to have a tragic ending seemed to make the story even more alluring. Doubtlessly, the story would be made into songs soon enough. In Camelot it would be presented as a tragic, cautionary tale, and outside its borders it would be a tale of tragic romance and unwavering devotion in the face of death.

Castiel wondered whether he would have done the same as Rowena if he had been in her position. Guiltily he remembered how he had deliberated on whether he should help Charlie. Nobody could ask somebody else to risk their life for somebody else; nobody could reproach him for wanting to stay alive. Charlie was a friend, though, and while a dear one despite their short acquaintance, she was not his lover. If Castiel were in love with her, would he have valued her life above his own? Would he have healed her, automatically, without thought of the consequences? He reminded himself that he would have healed her, that he had been about to, right after he would have made sure that it was safe to do so, hoping Charlie would be able to hold out long enough. But what would he do in a situation where that would have been no option? Rowena might have simply not cared about hiding anything in her panic to get to Charlie and see her safe. Maybe Rowena had counted on Dean to overlook the magic because it had save him and his friend.

Dean’s reaction had shown Castiel once more just in how much danger he really was. Charlie had been his best friend for years. They trusted each other implicitly, fighting back to back. And yet, as soon as magic had come into play, he had been prepared to send her off the the block without a second thought. It had not been easy on him, true, but that had not stopped him. The law and everything bad that magic was supposed to be canceled out anything good that magic could be.  

As Castiel had gone through the motions of bringing Dean food, he had realised that even if Dean and he ever were to become friends, it would not save Castiel from the pyre. The law was the law, and no good deeds would ever amend that. Castiel had been shocked and disgusted that Dean had likely not even considered anything but death for Rowena, but not surprised. Speaking up for Tanya had been the right thing to do, given the 'evidence' and if Castiel had learned anything about Dean so far, then it was that he cared about his people, at least as long as they followed the law and had nothing to do with magic. What had _really_ stumped Castiel was that Dean had pleaded for Charlie’s life as well. His regard for her as his friend and his recognition of her conduct as his knight had outweighed his wish for her death as demanded by the law. He had proposed exile instead and Castiel had felt a spark of something like destiny. Castiel still doubted that Dean was the Righteous King, but he had shown that he would be a more merciful king than John. Castiel saw little chance that the laws against magic would ever change in any way, but maybe Dean would manage to be more reasonable about them than his father was. Whatever the future might bring, for the current time Castiel was in as much danger as ever. Castiel had no doubt whatsoever that should the prince ever find out that Castiel had magic, Dean would send him to the pyre without a second thought.

All his deliberations was doing nothing to help Charlie and Rowena, however. Castiel knew in his heart that he would not be able to live with himself if he let the three women die. So he followed Bobby to their rooms, listened to Bobby rant and rave, and helped him heat up some soup and prepare some buttered bread. Bobby shot him a couple of looks while they were both pretending to eat anything of their dinner, but wisely chose not to bring it up. Before they went to bed, however, Bobby made a point of digging out an ancient looking scroll, opening it, and accidentally stabbing it a couple of times with a greasy finger. He dropped it in front of Castiel.

“Oh my, I seem to have lost that old map of the old cellars and foundations. That’s too bad, it shows all those forgotten tunnels of the old castle that run beneath the dungeons,” Bobby said completely en passant. “I also keep thinking about those cuffs which were used for Rowena because they are bespelled to resist magic, and how good it is that they can only be opened with that silver key the head of the prison guard carries on a chain around his neck. So very good that nobody knows that.”

With that Bobby went off to bed, but before he left the main room, he turned around again.

“Dean ain’t a bad boy… John’s had Dean under his thumb all his life. I wish that boy’d once and for all stand up to his father, but John’s a difficult man, and ’s been getting worse. If Charlie dies tomorrow, ’s gonna break his heart, and he’ll never forgive himself.”

Castiel nodded.

“Also, someone should let Tanya’s husband know that they might want to leave the city, what with Tanya gone and all.”

As soon as Bobby had left, Castiel ducked into his own room, eager to examine the map. There were three greasy stains coinciding miraculously with three cells towards the deepest corner of the dungeons, and a long smear that just so happened to follow one of the corridors. A good while after midnight, once the guard had changed, Castiel sent Balthazar to take a small missive to Tanya’s husband, telling him what Bobby had suggested. It was late enough that nobody would see the raven, and with a little luck the bird might be able to get somebody else to do it. The Ravenfolk would surely help given the situation, and they were good at things like that. Also, Castiel would make sure to leave them food in trade. That done, Castiel packed an old canvas bag with anything useful he could get his hands on and which he was sure Bobby would not mind going missing. The rest of the bread, dried fruit, a few stripes of cured meat. He did not have any money he could add, but he picked one of the blankets Bobby usually used for his patients.

Castiel left Bobby’s chambers and started down to the cellars. Unsurprisingly, there were more patrols around than usual. With a frown, Castiel considered what he could do to ensure he wouldn’t be caught. He did not dare do anything flashy, but maybe he could get to his destination unseen the same way he had always managed to sneak into Hannah’s pantry as a child. Castiel concentrated on the shadows around him and, one by one, drew them closer until he was shrouded in them. As long as Castiel stayed in the shadows and nobody looked too closely, he should be fine. He moved first slowly and then more confidently, and soon he was watching the guards at the gate leading down to the dungeons. The guards were easily distracted by barrel that Castiel caused to fall over and roll down the opposite corridor.

All in all, getting down to the dungeons ended up being oddly anti-climactic. The guards apparently had the attention span of five-year-olds and a work morale to match. Spying from the shadows Castiel’s mind boggled as he saw the main guard detail sitting around a make-shift table, playing cards and nose-deep in their ale, and Castiel started feeling concerned for his own safety as a citizen of Camelot. Raising the amount of alcohol in their drinks was an easy thing to do, and or the next ten minutes, as they got rapidly and irrevocably drunk, Castiel was treated to a display of humankind at its finest. Two of the men got into a very unsteady fist fight over a presumed infraction of the rules and knocked each other out accidentally, one slipped off his chair already snoring, and the remaining two declared their undying love for each other and started heatedly making out. Thankfully they too passed out before anything more happened. Castiel quickly looked for the head prison guard and nicked the silver key, but did not want to risk looking for the keys to the cells. Hopefully having three convicted criminals, one of them an oh-so-evil sorceress escape from right under their noses would spark a discussion on improving security measures.

Castiel found the cells easily enough and simply unlocked the doors with magic. He pulled a face. One should think that the king would at least deign to use magic to guard the cells where he intended to keep sorcerers, but apparently the cuffs did a good enough job. Rowena certainly sighed with relief once he had taken them off her. Charlie flew into Rowena’s arms. Both women started apologising profusely to Tanya for having dragged her into this, but Tanya kept eyeing Castiel warily.

“You used magic to unlock the door,” she said, emotions quickly playing across her face. Anger, distrust, hope.

Castiel had expected that Rowena had to have guessed, seeing as she had lied about protecting Dean. Charlie was alarmingly unconcerned.

Castiel shuffled on his feet.

“Yes, I do, but there’s no time right now. There’s an old tunnel that will take you one of the old exits that were used to smuggle in food during sieges.”

They left the magic cuffs in Rowena’s cell and Castiel returned the key to where he had found it. Castiel wondered how he would manage to cloak all four of them in shadows, but Rowena had no compunction about forgoing subtleness. She hissed a spell and the group was encased in a silvery bubble. Castiel gave her a doubtful look, but Rowena only shrugged.

“Don’t ye worry, nobody’s gonnae see anything from the outside. Just empty space. Keep quiet, though, and make sure ye stay inside the bubble.”

They tottered along as quickly and quietly as they could. The corridor Bobby had marked lead to the hall where Castiel had found the heavily looked door leading down to the dragon. The tunnel indicated on the map was one of the gates to the right. The gate opened easily under Rowena’s magic.

Castiel was about to follow the women into the tunnel, when Charlie stopped him.

“Castiel, thank you, but we’ll be fine from here. Go back, make sure nobody has seen you. You already risked so much.”

“Charlie—“

“Or, ye could come with us,” Rowena cut in. “Ye’re welcome to follow us to my wee castle, ’tis beyond the borders of this sorry kingdom, well hidden in the mountains. Only very few know about it. Ye’d be safe there. An’ Ah would be happy tae teach ye everything Ah know.”

It was a tempting offer. Leaving Camelot and not living in fear but still learning about his magic sounded heavenly. He imagined spending his time studying magic and not having to tend to a self-righteous, pretentious prat. But whatever wonders of prat-less freedom Castiel imagined, it felt somehow hollow and devoid of colour. Castiel glanced at the door that lead down to the dragon. If there was any chance that what Gabriel had said was true… Even if Dean was not the Righteous King, he had shown today that he would be a better king than King John, and it was difficult to ignore his heart when it kept screaming so loudly at Castiel that Dean was a good, caring man. Also, and that was something Castiel could not quite admit to himself yet with all its implications, Castiel would hate for Dean to get hurt.

“Thank you for your offer, Rowena, but I cannot leave here. There are… things that keep me here.”

Rowena raised her eyebrows, but her look was knowing.

“Destiny?”

“Perhaps, but if so an annoying one.”

The witch smiled at that.

“They usually are,” she said. Then her eyes hardened. “But he willnae thank ye for it. Mark my words, sooner or later, they will have yer head, an’ yer destiny will be the one who calls for it loudest.”

Castiel swallowed.

“I know.”

Rowena sighed. She waved the women over, placed her hands on their sternums and mumbled a spell. Charlie and Tanya squeaked.

“’tis a spell that will keep them hidden from any magical locator or identifier spells. Ahh will show ye how it works, because one day ye’ll need it. And when that day comes, call for Crowley of the Ravenfolk, he can show ye tae my castle, and since it’s ye he actually will. Don’t look so surprised, Ah know yer friendly with the Ravenfolk. Balthazar’s not that subtle when stealing cheese. The Ravenfolk don’t give their favour lightly, they must have good reason to.”

With that words she placed her right hand on her own chest and said the string of guttural words slowly and clearly so Castiel could follow. She made him repeat them a couple of times until she was satisfied. Then Castiel hurriedly explained to Tanya the note he had sent to her husband, and once he was done, he handed Charlie the bag.

“I will miss you, Cas,” Charlie said and gave him a fierce hug.

“I am sorry I could not get your sword, Charlie, and I haven’t got any horses for you either… How will you manage?” Castiel worried.

Charlie shrugged.

“We’ll steal some, or we’ll figure out something else. We’ll manage. Rowena’s got a couple of aces up her sleeve.” Charlie winked. “We’re going to fake our deaths, so if you hear something like that, don’t write us off just yet.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said. He grinned. “Thank you for assuaging my fears preemptively. I won’t tell anybody.”

“Dean will take this hard,” Charlie said, frowning. ”He’ll blame himself—“

“As well he should!” Rowena interjected.

“Maybe, but you don’t know where he’s coming from. He reacted badly, I give you that, but he did what he could. Nobody will berate him more for not doing more than he himself. Look out for him, Castiel. I know that’s a lot to ask, given the circumstances, but… he’s an idiot, but he is my best friend. Mind you, I wouldn’t be half as forgiving if you hadn’t gotten us out in time.”

“I’ll try,” Castiel sighed.

“Thank you, that’s all I can ask. But keep yourself safe first and foremost, ok?”

“I will.” Castiel nodded. He could feel himself tearing up. “Be safe!”

They all bid each other a teary goodbye.

Castiel closed the gate behind them.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

When Castiel was woken by the alarm bell at a little after four in the morning, he knew that the guards coming in at the guard change had discovered the absence of their prisoners. Charlie had a good head-start and Rowena was powerful enough to hide them if need be. Castiel went back to sleep with a smile on his face.

A few hours later, Castiel found Dean lying in a ball on his bed, still in the clothes from the day before. The phial on his nightstand was missing more than it should and for a moment Castiel was afraid that something might have happened. There wasn’t enough missing to be terribly worried about, but still. When he hurried over, however, he saw the night pod beside the bed, with a thin sheen of dried liquid on the bottom. Checking that Dean was really asleep, Castiel took the phial into his hand and allowed his eyes to flash. A few spots the crust on the bottom gleamed blue, indicating a match with the liquid in Castiel’s hand. In that case, he could let Dean sleep. At some point not long after taking the medicine, Dean had apparently thrown up, which had likely saved him from waking up with an epic headache.

Castiel busied himself with taking care of the room until Dean would wake up; this being his job there was not really any other place he was supposed to be anyway. He could help Bobby, but Dean would throw a fit if he woke late _and_ Castiel was absent. That said, he would probably throw a fit simply for not having been woken up on time anyway. Allowing Dean more time to rest would therefore only give him more energy to scream at Castiel later, and given that Castiel did value his own well-being over that of a pretty-PRATTY! prince, Castiel figured he might as well wake Dean up. That turned out to be difficult, but Castiel enlisted the help of a towel drenched in cold water.

Dean shot up screaming bloody murder, and, as expected, started cussing Castiel out for waking him late, for waking him the way he had, and, once he sat down to have breakfast, for letting his breakfast grow cold. Oh yes, Castiel had definitely chosen wisely when he had told Rowena he would stay behind and not come to her fancy mountain castle. However, Castiel also remembered Charlie’s words, and he could see in the haunted look in Dean’s eyes that the prince was doing his best to keep his emotions to himself. The day continued on much the way it had started.

They were attending a council meeting - Dean was attending the meeting, and Castiel was attending Dean - when there was a knock and Benny came in, bearing news of the fugitives. One of the patrols had found traces of a scuffle in the woods; from what they had been able to gather, two, probably three, travellers had been attacked by bandits. There had been lots of blood, and they had found a few bright red hairs tangled in the thicket of the undergrowth. The tracks had led them to and into the river, a little upstream of some violent rapids that tore the river up before the water disappeared into a rocky gorge and not soon after underground. They had followed the water downstream until the terrain had been too rough to continue the search, at least with the equipment they had brought. They had, however, discovered a leather-boot, branded with Charlie’s seal, and scraps of fabric consistent with what Rowena had been wearing. There had been no traces of Tanya, but by the looks of it, the women had tried to escape the bandits by crossing the river and had fallen victim to the current. Benny had sent one of the guards around to check on the other side whether there were any traces at all, but there had been none. 

“Excellent,” King John said. “That removes that burden from our shoulders.”

Dean excused himself a little later. Castiel followed him, but Dean did not seem to truly notice. Castiel received a glare when he entered Dean’s chambers after the prince and closed the door, but he wasn’t being sent away. Dean fell into his huge armchair in front of the fireplace like a puppet whose strings had been cut all at once. He dropped his head beneath his knees. Neither of them said anything. Castiel was unsure what he should do, and, for a lack of a better idea, grabbed one of the rags from a box of cleaning supplies in the closet in the antechamber, and started wiping down the table. When he had finished there, Castiel moved on to the other surfaces in the room. He almost dropped a letter weight onto his foot when Dean suddenly started speaking.

“It’s all my fault. Not Rowena, but Charlie. Why did she have to hook up with a fucking witch? She knew better than that! Still… I should have fought harder. I know… I _know_ that I could not have swayed my father, but I…” 

Dean looked so heartbroken that for a teeny-tiny moment Castiel almost considers telling him the truth. But that could never be. Dean might feel sorry about Charlie, but that did not change his views on magic and that he would have Rowena killed should he ever find her.

“Benny hasn’t found the bodies, maybe they’re not dead after all…” Dean continued, the war between hope and doubt bordering on knowledge obvious in his face. He sighed. “I hope Charlie is alive. I don’t want her dead.”

“You may always choose to believe that, Dean.”

“I would have given her hell, but if it had been my decision, I would have found a way to pardon her… People can’t help who they fall in love with, and Charlie made a giant fucking mistake when she didn’t immediately report that witch, but love makes people do stupid things and she didn’t deserve to die for that if she didn’t use any magic herself! There has to be some other way…” Dean trailed off, running out of steam.

“One day you will be the king, Dean, and justice is always a noble goal. The punishment should match the deed, but sometimes mercy, if granted wisely, has unexpected benefits.”

Dean nodded. He seemed to collect himself a little.

“If you tell anybody I said that, I swear, you’ll spend so much time in the stocks, you’ll never walk straight again.”

“That’s not something I do anyway, Dean.”

Dean gaped at him, wide-eyed. Castiel could feel the colour rising in his cheeks.

“I mean—“

“Don’t even try.”

“But—“

“That was one of the worst puns I’ve ever heard.”

“That wasn’t bad, that was smooth as—“

“Why, Cas, I didn’t know you were declaring any intentions.”

“I wasn’t!”

“So what were you trying to say?”

“Nothing!”

“It sure sounded like something.”

“I— Will you let this go?!”

“Not in the near future. Middle and distant future ain’t looking good either.”

“Dean!”

“You can’t call me Dean, I’m the friggin’ prince!”

“If you call me Cas, I’ll call you Dean!”

They were staring at each other from opposite sides of the room, but Castiel had to check before he could be sure. Yes, the table was still between them. Dean was grinning, and a sparkle had returned to his eyes. He was a misguided idiot, but much of that was probably not his fault. Probably. Maybe there was hope there after all?

“So, what did you mean with you’re not straight? Guys? Girls and guys? No preference at all?”

“Dean!”

“To you Your Royal Highness! Or Your Grace, I can live with that. Will you call me Your Grace, Cas?”

Oh yes, Castiel was so happy he had stayed. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> The end! Well, for now anyway :>
> 
> Moonliteknight was awesome and made three pieces of art - this one here is a little sneakpeak of what is to yet come :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770900) by [Moonlite_Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlite_Knight/pseuds/Moonlite_Knight)




End file.
